Elfling Tales
by One Wish Magic
Summary: A collection of little one-shot stories featuring Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and of course Estel during their tender years. Individual summarys for each one-shot provided inside. One-shots do not follow in chronological order.
1. Trouble Brewing

_Authors Note: (excited to do one of these) Okay so this story has had a bit of an overhaul, and though you will find none of the shots different in plot, it has suffered a spelling and gramatical revision - however, i don't pretend to be perfect and spelling is a particular weakness, so anything i have missed, do not hesitate in bringing it to my attention. I have also ommited a few lines throughout that i no longer liked, but apart from that there isn't much differnce at all, and also for the delight of anyone if it should bring some: an eighth shot has been uploaded with the writing of a ninth pending and a tenth 3/4 completed._

_However, i am now in my A2 year in collage and the workload alone is near intolerble, so updates, if any will be few and far between and no sooner than February if there are any. I apologise profously, i like the situation not, but on the plus side, hopefully it will all be worth it. Thank you for your continued support :)_

_-One Wish Magic _

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Chapter One: Trouble Brewing 

**Summary****:**

_A pregnant Celebrian is kept awake by her twin son's refusal to rest. Her cravings give way to some sweet treats and a late night conversation._

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It was late, or extremely early depending on which way you saw the world. Rivendell was quiet, the only sound was the combined, rhythmic breathing of all the sleeping elves.

Sleep, however, was the one thing that seemed to elude Celebrian, all thanks to her two unborn sons. They delighted in keeping her awake all night, with there never ceasing kicking and moving about. They worked as a tireless team; while one slept the other would rage a fierce battle against the inside of Celebrian, then, when one got tired they would swap. Her twins were barely seven months old and already they were giving her a run for her money. The Valar only knew what trouble lay ahead.

Celebrian turned onto her back hoping that the change of position would make her sons relax and go back to sleep, she was sadly mistaken. One of the twins showed his unhappiness by aiming a viscous kick to the side of her stomach. She groaned.

"Can't you just let me have one good nights sleep?" she pleaded with her sons. Their painful answers were clear. No.

Frustrated, tired and craving jam and honey, she decided to get up. With a considerable amount of effort she positioned herself on to the end of the bed. Her bulging stomach really did get in the way. Using the bed post as an aid she pulled herself up. Her legs ached with the extra amount of weight she was carrying.

As quietly as she could she made her way out of her room, pausing only briefly to look at herself in the mirror. The pregnancy was really starting to take it's toll on her fine, elvin features. Her usually glowing white skin looked pale and sickly. Her eyes were surrounded by dark circles from lack of sleep. Her fine silvery locks, which usually cascaded down her back like a waterfall looked limp, uncared for and malnourished. All together she had to say, she was not looking her best.

She quickly moved away from the mirror, she did not like to see her beauty fading and imperfections showing, even if it was only temporary. She closed the beautifully carved door behind her, leaving the room completely empty. She had been sleeping in a room on her own for a while now, as her being kept awake by the twins was keeping Elrond awake, and that she considered an unkindness.

Swiftly and silently she passed down the main corridors and into the kitchens. This was a trip she had made many times over the past few months, and one she was likely to repeat again before this pregnancy was over.

She opened the cupboards and searched for what her cravings desired tonight. The larder had been well stocked with all the food and fine treats Celebrian could want. Tonight was a time for jam and honey. She often found that she desired two different things at the same time, courtesy of the twins.

She brought the jam, honey, a bowl and a spoon to the table, where she mixed a generous amount of each sweet treat, licking her lips at even just the thought of the concoction. The twins also grew excited as they knew that they were getting what they desired. Unable to wait any longer, Celebrian spooned the mixture greedily into her mouth. When her craving had been satisfied, the twins finally relaxed and decided that they would sleep a little.

Celebrian smiled, twins were a real rarity among elves, with only one set being born every age or so. Elrond and her had already decided on names for the young rascals: Elladan and Elrohir. She contemplated who they were going to look like, would they have her silvery locks or would they have Elrond's dark sleek tresses. She smiled to herself trying to imagine her twin sons. Forever together. She was so immersed in her own thoughts that she did not notice someone come up behind her.

Elrond had heard Celebrian get up, and had also felt her frustration at their sons for not letting her sleep, but now she seemed quite content. Elrond noticed the discarded bowl, which had been scraped clean of it's contents.

"Up again are we?" asked the elf Lord. His wife turned to face him, giving him a guilty smile.

"And what was the craving tonight?"

"Jam and honey," answered Celebrian licking her lips. Elrond chuckled.

"I think the twins have finally fallen asleep," she sighed laying a hand on her overlarge stomach. She motioned for Elrond to move closer. When he had, she laid his hand at the side of her stomach, a smile spread across his face as he could feel his sons inside of her, their breathing patterns irregular to their mothers.

_Elrond_ looked into Celebrian's eyes with pity, she looked exhausted. Lately the pregnancy had took it's toll on her, hardly surprising really with twins. He leaned into her and kissed her tenderly on the cheek.

"Perhaps you should try and get some rest also," he suggested. Celebrian nodded.

"I cannot deny that a bit of much needed beauty sleep would do me the world of good," she yawned. Getting up, she turned and was just about to retreat out of the kitchen with Elrond behind her, when she stopped and smiled at the elf lord.

"These two are going to be trouble." she said

"I know," replied Elrond. "I have foreseen it."

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_Awwhh :) Elrond and Celebrain, what have they let themselves in for :')_

_As always, your words are welcomed if you wish to give them_

_Thank you for reading!_

_- One Wish Magic_


	2. Valar Watch Over Them

_Woops! Forgot the disclaimer: I hearby solemly disclaim that i own nothing but the idea's behind these shots, I own none of the characters who as always belong to the inspirational J.R.R Tolkirn, and gain from my work no profit beyond my own enjoyment :)_

_Hope you enjoy._

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Chapter Two: Valar Watch Over Them

**Summary:**

_A Blessing Ceremony is performed to honor the newborn Elladan and Elohir._

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Gently, Elrond lifted his tiny son out of the beautifully hand crafted crib. A most skillfully made and wondrous gift to behold, given by the mighty Lord Glorfindel to the newly born Peredhil twins.

"Elladan, _Ion nin,_" he spoke softly to the boy nestled in the crook of his arm. His son stirred at the sound of his _ada's _voice, looking up at the mighty Lord of Rivendell with grey eyes. Elrond could feel his heart singing with joy, in all the thousands of years he had lived and all the wondrous beauty he had beheld, none was more so beloved to him than the vision of his two sons.

Celebrian, just as delicately, lifted Elrohir also from his crib, gently brushing her hand across the younger of the twins cheeks.

"Elrohir, awaken," she spoke tenderly to her son. He opened his eyes. So alike were the sons of Elrond and Celebrian that all who looked upon them thought that they were regarding a double image. Never before had there been two elves with such a striking similarity to each other, and never again would there be.

Elladan and Elrohir were swaddled in shawls of the purest white silk.

"It is time," said Elrond, gazing out of the window as the first mornings light began to slowly creep over the havens grounds. "The sun rises over _Imladris_ this day, we must not tarry ere we'll miss it."

With a nod Celebrian, closely followed by Elrond exited the twins room. Cradling their sons, the two mighty elves took up their places at the head of the procession that awaited them.

Slowly they began to walk, each step that they took, purposeful; but not leaving any mark upon the earth. Elven minstrels at the back of the procession struck up a tune. Their instruments all in a united harmony while their voices; tenor, bass, alto, soprano, wove together to form a most beautiful melody.

Each elf in the procession wore garments of white and silver. A pure glow seemed to reflect, despite the fact that there was no discernible source of light. All those who dwelt in the haven of _Imladris_ had come to witness the age old – though now very really preformed – blessing ceremony, and also to themselves lay eyes upon the newborn son's of Elrond and Celebrian. For many, it would be their first glimpse of the Peredhil twins. Elladan and Elrohir had been born late into the night, and only those of the greatest importance had been permitted to see them.

The procession wound it's way through the gardens of _Imladris_. Morning dew still clung to the leaves of the plants, and many of which still held their flowers tight in concealment. The morning air was cool, but not overly so. The world was just waking up.

The elven minstrels changed their song, now singing about the early springs blossom. As their chords grew more pronounced, and their voices grew stronger; a small breeze began to ripple gently around the procession. On which was carried the white blossom of which they sung.

The twins gazed wondrously as the white petals swirled and danced around them. Elladan gazed transfixed, while Elrohir reached out and tried to grab in his hand some of the delicate substance. Elrond and Celebrian looked down at their sons, smiling.

As the procession neared it's destination, all those who had gathered grew silent; looking to the head of the of the group where Elrond and Celebrian bore their sons. Galadriel and Celeborn stood a little way from the main crowd, the two Eldar elves exuding a bright glow and commanding a royal air.

The procession halted and only Elrond and Celebrian, holding their sons, still walked forward. The minstrels continued to play their music, but it seemed more so to fade into the background.

Glorfindel stood in the center of the crowd, next to the young sapling of a tree; under which lay two blankets of silk, each baring a decorative blue 'E'. This particular sapling had been planted at the precise moment of birth of Elladan and Elrohir.

"My lord and lady," greeted Glorfindel, bowing as the two elves drew level with him. Glorfindel, as one of the mighty first born, lords of the Eldar was hosting the blessing ceremony. He alone wore a robe of glittering gold. Turning, he addressed the crowd;

"Lords, Ladies, elves of _Imladris,_ hear me! Today is a special day for us all. We are here to celebrate the birth of the two sons of Elrond and Celebrian; Elladan and Elrohir." He motioned to each of the twins in turn. "Here we offer them to the Valar and ask for blessing. May they ever smile down upon them both."

With the sun quickly rising from behind the hills in the East, Glorfindel laid the twins on each of the silken blankets beneath the sapling. Neither cried out. Galadriel and Celeborn each stepped forward, they kissed their grandsons on the head before laying a blue tear shaped gem upon their brows. They then went to stand proudly beside Elrond and Celebrian. The crowd waited silently in anticipation.

Elladan and Elrohir's hands were clasped together. They kicked and squirmed against their swaddles, feeling no longer the close presence of their parents. Elrohir cried out once, but made no further sound.

Finally, the sun rose fully over the hills. There was a moment of stillness, no one moved, not even daring to breath.

Then, suddenly, a dazzlingly bright light washed over the twins and the sapling. All those present were forced to shield their eyes against the brightness.

It lasted no longer than a minute, a very short amount of time by elvish reckoning, but that single instant had had an astounding effect.

As the light subsided and all those present were again able to look upon the scene before them; it was to find that the sapling now a fully grown tree. It's leaves of the purest shade of green. It bore only a single fruit of a deep red colour.

Glorfindel stepped forward and picked the fruit, breaking it open. He dipped his fingers into the juice that seeped out from the newly broken seeds within. He smeared the juice onto both of the twins lips so that they could taste it, sealing the blessing.

"The Valar indeed smiles down upon them this day!" he announced to the crowd.

Amid the cheers of the crowd, Glorfindel reached down and picked up both of the twins, cradling each in the crook of his arms. He handed them back to Elrond and Celebrian.

"May it always be that way."

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_As always your words are greatly appreciated if you wish to give them :)_

_Thank you for reading!_

_- One Wish Magic_


	3. Hitting Targets

_It's been really funny looking back over these first three shots :') Like looking back on a part of history, a stage of inexperience greater than today's. I could never find it in my heart to change them though, as I would never again be able to capture the exact state of mind that was mine at each shots writing, to which they stand in testiment. Ahh fond memories :)_

_Hope you enjoy. _

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Chapter Three**: **Hitting targets

**Summary:**

_Boredom leads Elladan and Elrohir to a bit of showing off, though, unfortunately for them, things don't go exactly according to plan … _

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"'Dan, I'm bored!" complained Elrohir loudly to his twin. The Peredhil twins sat on one of the marble benches in the midst of the gardens of _Imladris_. The hour was still young, about midday judging by the height of the strong sun in the sky. It was a warm though not to humid day. Elladan sat reading, enthralled and captivated by the story; while Elrohir once again expressed, like he had done close to twenty times previous, his boredom.

Elladan sighed, trying to block out his brothers slightly whining tone that so gratingly kept interrupting his peace. He turned the page of his book, not looking up.

"Then please, _gwador vuil_. Go and find something to amuse yourself with." He turned his full attention back to the book resting in his lap.

"But there's nothing to do!" complained Elrohir, a little louder than before.

Rather than entering a debate with his brother about what there was to do or not, which neither of them would win. Elladan chose to ignore the comment, hoping that it would quell his brothers complaining.

It did, and silence reigned over the twins for a few minutes, until Elrohir just had to ask;

"Whats that that you're reading 'Dan?" Elrohir glanced over his brothers shoulder.

Admitting defeat, Elladan snapped the book shut and placed it on the bench next to him. He just wasn't going to get any peace until he could figure out something for his annoyingly persistent brother to do.

"I _was_ reading," he he replied a little testily, with emphasis on the 'was', "One of the great tales of old, similar to the one that Glorfindel told us not long ago. Do you remember?"

"Aye, I do." Elrohir nodded, but then his brow furrowed, "I didn't know that they were written down though. I thought that they were just simply told, like they are in the hall of fire. Passed down from one generation to the next."

"Aye, now they are, but they were transcribed long ago. Probably mostly by the race of men who wanted all of their successes and victories to be recorded, then, if the curse of man ever befell them before they could pass down their stories, they would never be forgotten. Even in death they would still be hailed." Elrohir listened intently to Elladan's explanation. Having now his brothers full attention, and along with it some peace and quit, Elladan decided that it would be a good idea to keep it.

He picked up the book again, but instead of turning and reading from where he had last left off, he turned to the front.

"Look," he said, motioning for Elrohir to move closer. "The very beginning of the book is still written in the common tongue, only later on was it translated into Elvish."

Elrohir looked back and forth from the crude lettering of the common tongue, to the more delicate and smooth flow of the Elvish lettering.

"Wow!" he said, taking the book from Elladan and examining it closely.

Elladan shook his head, smiling slightly. Only now that his brother had stolen his own pursuit did he remain silent.

"Why do you not whittle something,_ gwadore_?" Elladan asked, after enjoying the silence for a few moments.

"I cannot think of anything to whittle," replied Elrohir simply, handing Elladan's book back.

"Something will come to you sooner of later," Elladan reassured him.

Despite their strikingly similar appearances, the Peredhil twins had differently placed priorities. Elladan took an interest in books and other such intellectual pass-times, while Elrohir enjoyed a more hands on activity like whittling and and such similar things, liking to see what his hard work had achieved at the end of each day. They both however took an avid interest in each others hobbies, so although this difference seemed large to they it was only appeared very minor to everybody else. Elladan was the more quiet, reserved and thoughtful of the two and Elrohir was a more vivacious, fun loving, live for the day type. They both shared a special bond, the likes of which no one could ever fully fathom. It was the two of them against the world and always would be, they would endure together through anything.

"Is that Legolas that I see?" asked Elrohir, suddenly. Straining his eyes to get a proper view of the small, blond elfling that was darting in and out of sight behind the many flowering bushes.

"I do believe it is," answered Elladan also looking. "_Ada_ must have called council, or at least with Thranduil anyway."

"Shall we eavesdrop?" Elrohir asked his twin hopefully, "We may learn something interesting."

"Nay," said Elladan flatly. "But I do have an idea that will cease your boredom. Come, follow me! You will like it."

Elladan set off at a run with his twin following close behind. They both tailed the little elfling through the gardens. Legolas however, remained oblivious to his mischievous comrades presence, until Elladan reached out a hand and touched his shoulder.

Legolas spun around, his eyes glittering blue, wide and fearful. He relaxed slightly when he caught sight of his startlers.

Legolas was now a decade in age, diminutive in stature and young in appearance, though keen of mind and possessive of wisdom far exceeding such tender years; as was the case with elflings. The mind grew unprecedentedly while the body was left playing catch up. The small woodland elf stood no taller than two feet, innocent of expression and ever curious of regard.

"'Dan, 'Ro," he breathed. "You scared me!"

"We are sorry _tithen pen_, that was not our intention," said Elladan calmly to the tiny elfling .

The twins had met Legolas a mere two times previous, once when he had been nothing more than a bundle of joy wrapped up in blankets in the arms of his proud father, with nothing more than his dazzling blue eyes and little tuft of blond hair showing. And then once again when he had been left in the care of Elrond for a couple of weeks while Thranduil had had to run a most urgent and dangerous errand. But in such fleeting meetings, firm friendships had been founded and long in absence would endure.

"'Ro and I were just heading down to the archery field," lied Elladan, "and came to ask you if you would like to accompany us?" Legolas looked between the twins before answering happily;

"Of course!"

So with that, the three of them walked down to the archery field. The two darker haired elves, clad in red walking either side of the smaller, blond haired and clad in green.

When they arrived at the archery field it was to find the place empty, much to the approval of the twins. Strictly speaking, right now they were not allowed to be on the archery field without someone watching them, someone responsible like Glorfindel. But when the opportunity arose, the twins just could not resist showing off their long practiced skills, and with the arrival of Legolas a shining opportunity had most certainly arose. Legolas was just young enough to be utterly wowed by their displays, unlike many of the other elves that they usually practiced with, who, with a little determination and work could probably have mastered their tricks. Legolas had no chance of doing that any time soon – or so they thought.

Quickly and quietly so that no one would be alerted to their presence, Elladan and Elrohir crept into the weapons house, where everyone kept their training bows, and retrieved their own as well as a quiver full of arrows each.

The twins then lined themselves up to their targets, and at the same precise moment, each loosed an arrow. Their arrows flew through the air and both hit the corresponding targets at the exact same time and with a satisfying _thud!_

Legolas, who stood close to the twins but not close enough as to get in their way, stared open mouthed and aghast at the arrows firmly embedded into the targets and then back at the twins.

Elrohir, fueled by the young elflings amazement at his skill announced almost boastfully;

"That's nothing."

He attached five arrows to his bow and lining them up loosed each in quick succession. They went sailing towards the targets, each aim true, hitting five corresponding targets completely central. Elladan quickly followed suit, his own arrows hitting the targets to the right of his brothers and completely parallel.

By now Legolas was positively ecstatic.

"More! do more!" he begged of the twins. Neither of whom could refuse, they were simply relishing the fact that their showing off was getting the appreciation it deserved.

Elrohir gladly complied making a great scene of closing his eyes before pulling back his bow string and firing. The arrow, as before soared to the center circle of the target.

Legolas cheered and Elrohir took a small bow. Elladan rolled his eyes and stepped up to his own target. Instead of facing it though, he turned the opposite way. He raised the bow fitted with an arrow, over his head, aimed, and fired. Like that of his twins, the arrow embedded itself in the bulls-eye.

Legolas once again cheered, practically bouncing up and down with excitement.

Elrohir not to be out done by anyone, not even his own twin, took things to a new level.

"Choose an apple form that tree Legolas and I shall shoot it down for you," he said, gesticulating.

Legolas looked carefully before choosing the biggest, reddest, and what looked to be, the juiciest apple he had ever seen.

"Okay," said Elrohir, "It shall be yours."

Elladan watched his brother intently, this he had to see. Elrohir carefully lined up his arrow, he had to get this shot just right, he needed the sharp point of the arrow to slice through the stalk that was holding the fruit to the tree.

He loosed the arrow and watched as it steered course, all three elflings alike held their breath. Closer and closer it got. Almost there …

Elrohir could watch no longer, he closed his eyes. There was a muffled _thud_ and a shout of;

"You did it 'Ro." He opened his eyes to see Legolas racing off to retrieve his apple.

" Of course I did," he said, breathing a small sigh of relief. He could see Elladan smiling and shaking his head at him. He just smiled back. No one else would ever know about the moment of self doubt that Elrohir had experienced. It would simply stay between the two of them for ever more.

When Legolas had finished the apple, which had been one of the finest that he had ever eaten, he asked eagerly of the twins;

"May I have a go?" Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other, they were pretty sure that their a_da_ would not approve of them handing over a bow and arrow to the younger elfling, when they themselves were disallowed usage without supervision. But then again their a_da_ was not here, and what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

"Okay," said Elladan relinquishing his bow to the excited elfling, "but you have to be very careful."

"I will," promised Legolas eagerly, taking the bow and approaching the targets. Elladan and Elrohir followed him.

Standing either side of the young elfling, the twins instructed him on how to fire the bow; which was almost as big as him.

Legolas pulled back the bowstring and let loose the arrow. It sailed easily to the exact center of the target and embedded itself there. Elladan looked proudly down at the little elfling before him, but Elrohir just scoffed;

"Beginners luck. I bet you couldn't hit it again," he challenged. Legolas gladly excepted the challenge and loosed another arrow.

This arrow too hit the target, once again right in the center. However, most surprising thing of all was, the second arrow that Legolas had fired hit the target at the exact same point as the first; slicing right the way through the middle of the former.

It was now the twins turn to gaze open mouthed and aghast at where the new arrow and the remnants of the split older were embedded, and then back at the tiny elfling that had fired the shots. It just wasn't possible, was it?

Once Legolas had gotten hold of a bow, he was very reluctant to give it up for anybody. Each shot that the twins fired he managed to imitate. Any trick that they could remember learning, Legolas could execute seemingly effortlessly.

Each tricksters downfall; never would they charge their actions to another. Though the twins practiced in secret, they had never entertained the thought that Legolas had been doing likewise.

The twins finally gave up and headed dejectedly back to their rooms, leaving Legolas to go back to doing whatever it was he had been doing before the twins had spotted him. It was simply no fun to show off to someone who could match you shot for shot.

Elladan had accepted Legolas' skill, graciously, but Elrohir was having a hard time coming to terms with the fact. It was safe to say that he was more than a little sore.

"It was just beginners luck 'Dan, I'm telling you now. There is not way that anyone is that good on their first attempt. Just no way," Elrohir told his twin all the way back to their rooms.

With a mastered patience Elladan just replied;

"Whatever you say 'Ro. Whatever you say …"

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_Awwwhhh :) I love the fact that Estel, Legoals, Elrohir and Elladan's ages are variable, it makes for so much fun._

_As ever, thank you for reading :)_

_- One Wish Magic _


	4. Starry Tales

_This, i have to admit, is not my favorite shot, perhaps due to the conditions it was penned in. But hopefully you will exact from it from it a little more joy than I did, and whatever its fault it will always be shot four and for that reason alone cannot be omitted. I am however a little happier with it than i was. But as with my experience as an amature writer; i tend to not use/dispose of more writing than i ever post. I wonder if this is the same for everybody? Or does that make me an oddity :')_

_Always, my wishes for your enjoyment. _

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Chapter Four: Starry Tales 

**Summery**_**:**_

_Estel thinks that he has discovered a new star, and a skeptical but humoring Legolas is brought along for the ride, explanations and bonding surely follow._

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It was a pleasantly warm mid-summers evening as the two figures, with quick pace, carved their course across the grounds of _Imladris_. One, tall and Elvish, with long, silky blond hair, common to his kindred. The other, smaller, daintier, with a mess of curly brown hair, and human.

"Come, Legolas. You have to see this!" said Estel breathlessly, addressing his almost adolescent Elvish friend.

Estel had been in an excitable mood since he had burst into Legolas' quarters – without knocking, mind. Which he would later chastise himself for, as being very rude – proclaiming that he had discovered a new star.

"Estel, I have seen the stars many a time, surly I would know if there were a new one," Legolas ventured gently as not to dishearten his young friend, but at the same time trying to make him see reason. If there were a new star, the elven race would be the first to know.

"Not this one." Estel remained adamant, "It just appeared like -" his childish features molded into a frown, as he searched for the right words. After none can to mind, he conceded; "It just appeared."

"Okay," said Legolas, deciding just this once he would humor his friend.

For the rest of the way, the two walked in silence. Estel seemed to be leading them to the exact spot where he had seen his star. His direction was true and his guidance did not falter, he seemed to know exactly how to reach his destination. This surprised Legolas a little, but he kept it to himself.

As they drew nearer, Estel paid less and less attention to where he was going, and instead turned it to the sound of his heavy footfalls in comparison to those of his friends. He observed Legolas' steps, the exact way his feet left the ground and re-made contact. He mimicked their actions, but found it near impossible to walk even a few steps. It felt so unnatural to him, so in-human, his footfall sounding even heavier than before despite his conscious effort to soften them. Legolas laughed a little to observe him.

"Human feet are not made for Elvish walking."

"I guess not." was Estel's slightly defeated answer, his steps returning to their usual pattern.

Up ahead Legolas could just discern the indentation upon the grass where Estel had previously been lying, his small weight and form still creating a mold. Apparently Estel could see it too, for he made straight for that spot. Legolas, for the second time that night was pleasantly surprised. He was certain that Estel's eyes could not see what his could. Which left only one other conclusion; Estel had a knack for following a trail.

Estel quickly lay on his back in the grass, molding his body back into the groves it had created before. He motioned for Legolas to join him, who did so without any hesitation, laying down next to his friend and also looking up. They both stared up at the twinkling night sky, it's diamond stars in stark contrast to it's deep royal blue backdrop.

Legolas observed the stars, listing them off in his mind as he spotted them, and Estel searched the sky for his, but found it no-where.

When Legolas had noted and mentally accounted for all of the stars, he turned to Estel and spoke to him gently; "Where is it _mellon nin_? Have you spotted it yet?" Estel could feel the tears well up in his eyes and threaten to spill as he shook his head. Tears of sadness, frustration and longing. He'd seen it, he knew he had! It had been right there.

"I cant find it," he whimpered so quietly that Legolas almost didn't hear him. "It was there, honestly it was."

"I believe you _mellon nin,_" soothed Legolas, laying a hand on younger humans shoulder in a way of comfort.

"Perhaps it just disappeared behind a cloud is all," he said bracingly, to the crestfallen human. As far as Legolas knew, Estel did not lie for reason unknown, so if Estel said that he had seen something, then Legolas was willing to believe that it had been there.

Estel looked up dejectedly; "Nay, it is lost."

"I am sorry _mellon nin_," said Legolas sincerely.

Estel sighed and took one last, wistful look at the sky, and lo and behold! There it was. The same star which had afore appeared to him, now adorned the sky again. He couldn't contain the excitement that surged through him.

"Legolas! Thats it! Thats my star!" he all but shouted to the elf sitting next to him and pointing wildly. Legolas' eyes followed the direction in which Estel was pointing, his heart simultaneously rose and fell. For indeed, Estel had spotted something. A star that _he_probably had never seen before, but it was not exactly the discovery the young human had been thinking of, for this star was not new, at least not to those who it concerned. All of this confused Legolas slightly.

"Do you see it?"asked Estel excitedly.

"I do," confirmed Legolas, taking a moment to prepare himself for letting his friend down gently. Finally he could procrastinate no longer; "but I am afraid to tell you, Estel that you have not discovered a new star." Estel's face fell, "You have simply found a very, very old one: Earendil."

"So I am not the first to see ... Earendil?" he asked, his tongue tripping a little over the Elvish name.

"I'm afraid not, _tithen pen,_" Legolas consoled gently. "Though does it really matter whether you are the first to discover something? Isn't the occasion just as joyous in the initial discovery whether indeed you came first or last. You have made a discovery for yourself, and in essence, that is all that matters."

Estel positively beamed, so brightly did his face light up that Legolas distantly wondered why, right at this moment, he wasn't up there lighting up the night sky like the rest of the stars.

"Tell me about Earendil! How did he become a star?" Estel begged of his older friend. Legolas smiled and gladly launched into an explanation;

"Earendil the Mariner was the son of Idril and Tuor, only ever the second union of the Eldar and the Edain. He was from the House of Haldor, The Third House of the Edain, and the most renowned in the wars with Morgoth. Earendil was wedded to Elwing and with her, came to the Uttermost West, and, speaking as ambassador of both the races of Elves and Men, obtained the help by which Morgoth was overthrown. However Earendil was not permitted to return back to mortal lands, and his ship bearing the simaril was set to sail in the heavens as a star. Earendil is now a sign of hope to those in Middle Earth oppressed by the great enemy or his servants."

Legolas looked down at the young human, who had crawled almost onto his lap midway through his regaling, and was now nestled close to Legolas' stomach. He watched as Estel's eyes threatened to shut, even while he had been listening so intently.

"It is fitting indeed that you should now dwell with the descendants of Earendil," Legolas mused softly, almost to himself.

"Huh?" Estel stirred a little from the slumber that was almost about to engulf him, and gazed curiously upon his friend. "What's _ada _got to do with Earendil?"

"Earendil is Elrond's _ada_and Elladan's and Elrohir's _haru.._"

Estel gasped, his glassy eyes opening wide in shock for a moment, before falling half-mast again.

"You did not know?" Legolas asked. Estel shook his head.

"So then, you don't know about Elros?" Again, Estel shook his head.

"Tell me," the sleepy human begged.

"Not now," laughed Legolas, he was not even sure if Estel would remain awake to hear the beginning never mind the end, "It is a far too long and complicated tale to be told now. But one day Estel, I shall sit and tell you the tale, every single detail." Estel smiled happily, allowing his eyes to close completely.

"But for now," said Legolas, eying his little human friend with amusement, "I think it is bedtime for a certain sleepy human."

Estel didn't protest, as he usually would have done, as Legolas lifted him and held him so that his head rested upon the elf's shoulder.

Within seconds Legolas felt Estel's breath even out into the deep rhythmic breathing of a sleeper. He smiled happily; Estel slept peacefully under the stars he loved so much.

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_Thank you for taking the time to read!_

_- One Wish Magic_


	5. Natures First Green Is Gold

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_And now we move onto more recent writings, i cannot remember, if i had any points to add here, what they were, therefore I beg you if there is something that you do not understand, please don't hesitate to ask and I will do my upmost to provide you with the answer you seek :)_

_Hope you enjoy _

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Chapter Five: Natures first Green Is Gold 

**Summery:**

_Elladan observes the nature around him; its beauty and inadvertently its harshness. He witness a scene that raises some serious questions in his mind to the true colours of nature._

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Elladan stood in solitude upon the lowermost balcony, situated to overlook the great ravine that rushed past and below Imladris. He existed as a dark figure set against the ivory torrents, perfectly unmoving; his gaze trained upon the far distant mountains; impressive, snow capped elevations.

It was early Autumn and Imladris was decorated with natures hues; red, orange and gold, the colours of a dawn sunrise. Every so often a gentle breeze would stir the air and set rustling the crisp leaves, sometimes disengaging them from their parents anchoring hold, setting them to the task of beginning their long and lonely journey.

It was an occasion just such as this, which broke Elladan's thoughts. A vibrant, orange leaf, swirling pirouettes in the air, rushed past him in such close proximity that he almost felt its roughened surface brush against his cheek.

Touching his hands to the sun warmed stone, he leaned over the edging of the balcony, watching it circling gaily toward the ground, before it was lost to the rushing waters below.

Ulmo's water cascaded thunderously down a sheer rock-face, slicing indentations into the black rock, charting an eternally altering course. Droplets of water rained down like ice white bullets around the foaming liquid. Great white sprays that lingered in the air like mist, shrouded the point where water met water, creating one continuous swirling stretch.

This was Elladan's favorite place to sit and observe, whiling away many an hour here and there, and Elrohir's too, both of whom gained equal intrigue from the always bustling waters. So beautiful to regard, and so dangerous to get caught up in. Natures hidden secret: all beauty demanded its price.

A lone cry, sorrowful and searching, sounded its lamentations above, a leaf green bird with unfamiliar markings the only disruption in the eternal blue sky, untroubled by cloud.

Elladan regarded the small bird with interest, his keen eyes memorizing the lay of its markings. It had traveled a long way, evident from the manner of lethargy in which it beat its wings – almost like it was willing to give up, to forsake its distant travel as worthless. It gave another sorrowful cry that went unanswered like the first.

Suddenly, the innocent scene turned bitter. For a fraction of a second, like a shadow passing over the sun which stirred all dormant evil in the waking world into walking abroad for that minuscule passage of time, before, as suddenly as it had occurred, it ended, leaving behind only the memory to haunt.

As silent as the breeze, and blinking into existence, a perfectly angular and rich, mahogany brown bird; complete with with beak and talons as pointed as spear heads, brushed against the sky.

The hunter locked onto its prey. In one fell, august swoop, the outstretched talons closed around the small, leaf green bird who never even saw the attack coming.

There was a small screech before everything fell silent. The hunter, with skillful grace, unmatched by even its own kind, plummeted to the ground.

Elladan startled forward, captivated by the enactment of life taken to sustain life. His expression darkened, a mask of trouble that seemed ill fitting of his fine elven face. His keen eyes observed the hunters passage through the trees; before it finally came to roost atop a highest branch and Elladan could bear to watch no longer.

This startling occurrence was over as quickly as it had began and one less life existed in the world, but would anyone miss it? Nature was a cruel mistress.

His mind reeling with questions, Elladan did not hear the golden haired elf approach, and was uncharacteristically startled when the deep bass and airily tenor voice in concurrence, spoke directly behind him.

"Master Elladan?"

In that moment Elladan spun round to face his sudden companion. The young elfling's face smoothed quickly into a pensive expression, a false neutralism, but his wary eyes betrayed his disquiet.  
"My apologies, it was not my intentions to startle you," spoke Glorfindel slowly, his head tilted to the side with mild interest. His golden hair, for which he was so renowned, glinting marvelously in the sunshine; an image of beauty equal to a dragons horde.

Assessing the elfling's troubled countenance caused his smooth, porcelain skin to crease and his eyebrows to knit together in concern.

"You appear distracted, tithen pen. What ails you?" He moved forward, so that he and Elladan stood side by side, regarding the elfling with a critical eye.

"Just my thoughts ..."

Elladan gazed out towards the mountains again. He wondered vaguely, how much came to pass without any eye beholding it? What cruelty lay behind the masking beauty? And how possibly, could the race of elves – so definitively good and kind hearted, blessed by the Eldar with gifts other races could only but dream – love something so brutal and harsh?

Nature. The silent enemy and ally.

"Do you wish to share them?" asked Glorfindel, following the dark haired elfling's gaze.

Elladan shook his head, "Nay. It matters not."

"If it matters to you, then it matters," Glorfindel said evenly; neither inviting confidence nor denying it.

Elladan considered this, though try as he might, however, he could not gage within his mind, the Balrog slayers reaction and thus was averse to giving him enlightenment.

Glorfindel, sensing the elfling's resolve on the matter, mentioned it no further.

"Where is Elrohir?" It was an oddity to see either twin without his partner, and Glorfindel found this entire experience profoundly confusing.

"Finishing his lessons," supplied Elladan dejectedly, before asking his own question concerning the whereabouts of another;

"Where is ada?"

"He in his study tithen pen –"

Without further conversation nor explanation, Elladan departed, leaving behind a confounded Glorfindel to blink dazedly in his solitude, and stare blankly at the point where the elfling had disappeared beyond his sight.

Elladan walked stealthily down the corridor that lead to Elrond's study, his barely audible footsteps no more than a whisper of wind through grass. His face was bathed in alternating pools of light and shadow, permitted and obscured by the arm like branches of the trees that stood century just beyond the glassless frames, carved in imitation of entangled vines.

His expression seemed to take the beauty of his surroundings and transform them into a sinister depiction, his omniscient eyes were cast in shadow beneath a deep frown. Troubled, his mind remained and grew with each passing step, that tiny elapse of a second providing sufficient fuel to conclude something infinitely worse and worse each time.

Reaching the warm, oak door that stood at the end of the passageway – adorned with the carving of a majestic eagle roosted atop a sheer cliff face – Elladan extended his hand and knocked once. He tried to wait patiently, as previously instructed in the conduction of common courtesy, but found himself unable. Before he could undertake actions in his desperation, that he would be made to repent in due course, his fathers voice granted him admittance;

"Come in … "

Upon entering, Elladan found his father pouring over an aged script, scribbled in the common tongue by a rough hand. His finger traced particular lines again and again, gliding effortlessly over the smoothed surface. Elladan dared not interrupt, the tapping of his small foot against the cold stone floor the only outlet for his paramount anxiety.

Finally, Lord Elrond turned to regard his visitor, being more than pleasantly surprised to find his son in the place he had envisioned his councilor. However, his greeting smile faded instantly to regard the profound anguish and trouble that plagued his sons fine features and stance, warping them.  
Immediately he was standing and had crossed the distance that separated them both in two large strides, ere coming to kneel before the elfling and placing both his hands upon the small shoulders. Gazing into the eyes that were Celebrian's exact replicas, he asked urgently;

"Ion nin, what is wrong?"

In the initial moments that followed, Elladans response was lost, he knew not what to say or how to explain, only that it was vital that he did. Seconds passed, stretching into minutes and still the answers eluded him.

"Ion nin?" Elrond pressed, his tone tight with tension and concern.

Slowly, Elladan raised his gaze from the revolving patterns that adorned the floor beneath his feet, to meet with his fathers; its anxious intensity piercing him painfully.

The young elfling began in a stumbling manner, with an air of reserved caution;

"Ada, are we not – as the race of elves – predominantly good?"

"We are," confirmed Elrond carefully, in anticipation of his sons questions. "But even the very wisest among us can still be swayed by evil, which at the time, seems good and justly."

"Then ... we are no better than men, or dwarves or – " his voice rose in alarm.

"No race is superior nor inferior to another, Elladan," spoke Elrond sternly, firmly chastising his son. "It would do well for you to remember such."

"I'm sorry, ada," Elladan repented immediately, hanging his head in abashment.

Elrond's expression softened to witness such. He would rue the day when a stern telling off from their ada would be no deterrent for his sons misdeeds.

"Surely I am not being let off so lightly, tithen pen?" Elrond chuckled slightly in reassurance that his sons apology was accepted. "There was more yet, you wished to ask me?" he encouraged openly.

"Yes ..." Elladan kept his eyes averted intently downcast, watching his foot as it traced the repetitive patterns on the stone beneath. A depiction of uncertainty.

"Then proceed." It was a patient encouragement.

Elladan drew in breath, reaching up to brush aside a straying lock of dark hair; before returning his gaze upwards and holding it there. When he spoke, his tone was measured.

"But ada, if that than is true, how can we love nature which is so brutal, cruel and harsh? How can we love something that destroys to sustain itself? Something so unpredictable, which shrouds danger in its beauty, waiting in silent slumber to befall the unwary."

"My, my, Elladan. A fine question!" Lord Elrond chuckled in spite of himself, such keen and intuitive minds his sons possessed. A swell of nurturing pride stirred his heart. "A fine question indeed."

The elf Lord gazed into the curious eyes that held a desperation for truth, marred equally with a resignation of falsehood.

He saw his sons motives clearly within his own mind, the natural act which the elfling had deemed unjustly and which lay at the heart of his subsequent doubt and questioning. The simple norm had birthed such unanticipated anxiousness.

Drawing himself upright, his face resolute, the elf Lord placed a gentle hand upon his sons shoulder.

"Come," he spoke with tender tone, "we shall seek the answers you desire."

With a a softly firm, guiding touch, he steered Elladan out of the golden, sunlit study and into the vast gardens of Imladris.

The sun was declining in the sky. It's brilliant yellow tinged with red and orange, lighting the distant horizon and casting the fair dwelling of Imladris in a self contained golden hue. Crisped leaves littered the green grass, detailing the blank canvas. Every now and again a slight breath of wind would stir the leaves to life; swirling and pirouetting in a dance of their own, in which all instinctively knew the steps – before everything grew motionless once again. A still life image in an artists portrayal of Autumn.

Elrond guided his son to the very heart of the grounds. Here, the small ribbon stream that traced its course through the grounds and out beyond, accumulated into an extensive pond. White flowered lilies dotted its mirrored surface and tufts of tall, erect reeds gathered at its edge in closed communities.

The trees that grew within this depth were archaic relics, in existence since Imladris' founding. Great, high standing giants, their trunks broadened with age, their hands and far reaching arms gnarled, clad in woven foliage.

Upon a small elevation of earth, was set a white granite bench, and it was here that the two elves alighted.

After a pensive moments pause, Elrond commenced, his tone one of wisdom and majesty.

"The paramount thing you must understand, ion nin, is that nature is neither good nor evil, it just is. It can be influenced by the effects of both, but on the whole; it does not distinguish between the two. It is an impartial force to be acted upon."

Elladan listened intently as his fathers words wove a web of enlightenment around him, allowing his doubts to fritter away like carefree thoughts as he became enveloped.

"Nature exists outside of time, running parallel to everything but never quite on level, almost like we ... Its forging passions remained instilled in its existence. The balance of nature is a precarious one, and the rules which govern it were set before the Eldar and the Edain even came to be."

"Rules, ada?" Elladan questioned uncertainly. "What rules?"

Without a word Lord Elrond rose, a knowing smile playing upon his lips. He took his sons small hand in his own and lead the way toward the extensive body of water.

Drawing to a halt at the ponds edge, the elf Lord crouched, Elladan imitating this movement at his side.

As silent and as still as centuries they gazed out across the slightly rippling lens. Dragonflies, long and pointed in body and painted vibrant shades, carried by wings of stained glass; flitted skittishly about the surface of the pond. Every now and again they would brush against it, whether intentionally or not, sending ever expanding circles away from the point of impact. Betraying their positions to any opportunist hunter below.

"Observe," instructed Elrond.

Drawing back the right-hand sleeve of his sky blue robe, he extended two fingers, leaned forward slightly and stirred the water in close proximity to a dilatory red Dragonfly.

A predator from the depths locked onto its potential prey, cutting silently and swiftly through the water as if it were no more than an insubstantial air. It was visible before it broke through the film, rich green scales streaked with red. The body of a fish, with the legs of an amphibian and great bulbous eyes; too intelligent for an animal.

It lept from the water with exact precision and an archful grace, causing splashes like rain drops. Its agape mouth closed over the unsuspecting insect, trapping it evermore. Never veering off its hemispherical course, the victorious predator angled back into the water and disappeared.

Elladan gasped, his expression a mixture of awe and unpleasant surprise.

"Nature, Elladan, takes only what it needs to sustain itself. No more, no less. And it is this principle which is its most important governing rule. Everything has its purpose, even if that purpose lies with death."

Lord Elrond watched as the truth of his words penetrated and dissipated his sons distress. He had observed Elladan's frown of uncertainty smooth away to understanding, seen the rigid tension with which he had held his shoulders abate into relaxation, and bore witness to the reconfirmed certainty within his sons mind which had previously been lacking.

"What are the other rules, ada?" Elladan whispered, gripped with a sense of wonderment that made speaking above such seem a crude action.

"There is only one other," he smiled.

Inclining once more to the waters edge, Elrond beckoned Elladan hither. Parting the reeds that there existed in close congregations, the elf Lord revealed a slightly disrupted patch of earth, elevated above its surrounding; brushing it gently aside with the edge of his palm – not caring that the sleeve of his fine robe resided in the dust he was stirring up – he dislodged the cocooning incubator to reveal the tiniest of green shoots, baring only a single solitary leaf.

"For every life that is lost, there is always another lying in wait to replace it. In the cycle, there are no definitive beginnings nor endings."

Elladan gazed for a long moment at the minuscule specimen, awestruck. An new life to replace an old life, achievement exchanged for potential, all in aid of the continuation of existence.

"Are you a little more enlightened, ion nin?"  
"Yes, ada." His tone exuded integrity.

"Then I trust I have supplied you with sufficient evidence to prove that nature is not quite the fiend you thought it be? At times it may seem brutal, harsh and cruel, indeed you are correct, ion nin. But it will always compromise itself, and that is its definitive feature."

"Yes ada." His voice a smile.

Elladan's countenance was one of contentedness, his eyes glowing like diamonds in the setting sun. His mind was, for the most part, appeased; but the answering of one questioned, birthed another entirely. One which he was afraid to voice aloud.

"Now," said Elrond with an endearing smile, "I believe your original question was how can we love. Am I right in assuming that the grounds for that question no longer apply?" Elladan nodded earnestly.

"Good. Then perhaps we could re-phrase your question to why we love? 'why are elves lovers of nature?"

Elladan smiled eagerly, his thirst for knowledge provoked, and within him stirred a profound yearning for insight.

With royalty and grace Elrond rose. The folds of his robes swirling about his feet as he walked, creating a distance between him and his son; Elladan all the time watching his measured and precise actions.

The elf Lord was bathed in a disordered patchwork unity of shadow, caused by the suns failing rays filtering through the ever broadening scarceness of foliage, as he drew closer to the densest and most central tree that stood in the ancient grouping of a concise family. It had grown crooked and gnarled, great knots worsening the disfigurement, but yet every crevice of its bark seemed to exude a concealed knowledge, able to hold any enlightened soul in awe. Its extensive trunk was adorned with a pretty star shaped Ivy, its only beautifying feature.

Elrond extended a hand, placing it delicately against the rough bark before addressing his son. With his ever vigilant gaze, Elladan caught the movement of a slight tremor in the leaves and very tips of the branches, though they were unstirred by any breeze. It was as if the tree had shivered to the elf Lords touch.

"Elves' love for nature is born from their respect for it, ion nin. We understand the duality of its beauty and its irrevocable need for sustenance and the maintenance of its existence. The two halves that form the entirety and are present within us all. Our longlivety grants us great patience, insight and a heightened awareness toward what exists around us. Middle-Earth, for the most part, remains as unchanging as we; existing outside of the passage of mortal time, its beginning and ending is limitless such as our own and, in unity both our fates are tied to the earth. Our greatest pleasure is beheld in the stars and in the waters, the unlimited heights and depths, spanning unfathomable leagues.

"Our knowledge grants us assets that are only further extended by a courteous manor, but such does not come easily. An open and willing mind is an attribute gained only through practiced skill ... Come, I shall demonstrate to you the unspoken bond that unifies us both." Elrond beckoned the uncertainly intrigued elfling forward.

Elladan approached with a mounting sense of eagerness unquenchable within his heart. His feet ghosted through the soft green blades, no more than a whisper. He drew to a smooth halt a short distance from his father.

"Hold out your hands, ion nin," requested Elrond, a tender smile lighting his face.

Quelling his questions, the elfling obeyed, curiosity drawing his features.

His hands still resting on the roughened bark, Elrond drew himself closer to the vast trunk, an experienced fluidity in his movements. His face, eyes closed and lips parted, lay in such close proximity that less than an inch separated the two statued comrades. Elrond spoke with quick, inaudible words; while Elladan observed, entranced. His mind burning with questions he found himself unable to commit to voice.

A distant rustling above averted Elladan's attention, his vision, impaired by the rosette clusters of leaves, was no worthy tool in conceiving the source of the disturbance.

"Ada?" He asked with a heightened uncertainty that verged upon trepidation.

There was a very distinct though minute snap from above which was succeeded by a seemingly rhythmic tapping and an accelerated scratching against many a rough surface.

Quite suddenly, as if compelled by eager intent, a small rounded object burst through the last tufts of foliage and landed; cold and smooth within the cup of Elladan's upturned palms.

With interest the elfling turned the spherical object over and over again in his hands as if to view it from every perspective. A large ovular section, set into the middle, was slightly roughened and a dull beige colour; like untrodden sand, surrounded by a sea of two toned brown; twisting patterns onto the perfectly smooth exterior, which glinted in the last rays of light like polished wood. A single horse chestnut.

"Now do you see, ion nin?" Elrond asked, coming to stand at the elflings side, a fond smile adorning his lips as he spoke. "Our shared respect bonds us, and from that respect was born our admiration and love for that which we hold in high esteem."

"Aye, ada. I understand now," spoke Elladan with complete sincerity. "Hannon le."

With that singular expression of gratitude, he addressed both his father and the bearer of his gift. The elf lord smiled, placing a hand on Elladan's shoulder and beginning to guide the elfling back inside, the ancient tree however remained silent and motionless.

The last golden rays of sun were swallowed by the distant mountains, like the last dying embers of a fire, and twilight enveloped Imladris.

The two elves were shrouded figures in the dusk, black silhouettes in the approaching night. They matched each other step for step.

Elladan walked silently, his head cast downwards and his eyes averted in much the same fashion, as his mind raced unprecedentedly. A troubling question at its forefront allowing him only a minor reprieve.

As fast as answers are gained, questions are always quicker to arise. He toyed with the nut absentmindedly, passing it from one hand to the other in a repetitive motion, his fathers steering hand his only indication of direction.

Elrond, concerned once again about such a sudden and morose turn, duely inquired as to its cause.

"What persists to trouble you, tithen pen?" He ventured, regarding the elfling with an intuitive gaze.

"It is nothing, ada," Elladan spoke in the most off-handed tone as he could muster, but in the face of his father, all falsehood was rendered futile.

Elrond halted and Elladan too, was forced to cease his steps. The elf Lord adopting his earlier stance, kneeled before his son so that the two were on level. He waited for Elladan to reluctantly return his gaze before speaking.

"You may ask me anything, ion nin. This you know," he said, smoothing back the rebellious dark locks that harbored a tendency to fall over his elder sons eyes.

"Anything at all, and I promise if I possess an answer you may have it to alleviate your troubling thoughts."

Elladan's gaze rested upon his fathers face, which appeared somehow altered with concern. It was a look he would come to regard as a regularity over the passage of post centuries, especially subsequent to the arrival of their adopted kindred. But at the moment, it startled him into confession.

"If death for sustenance in nature can be justified, how then can we take a life for any other purpose? If we are predominantly good, then how can we unnecessarily take a life?" He rushed out, his eyes once again determinedly averted, but the image of his fathers expression remained all to clearly depicted within his mind.

"My, my, Elladan," breathed the elf Lord taken aback. "Such questions!"

"I'm sorry – " the elfling began, but knowing not how to finish found himself tongue tied. Elrond hushed his needless apologies.

"Never apologize for curiosity, ion nin, it is a wondrous thing," consoled Elrond. "I meant only that that is a very serious question you have asked, and one to which there is no definite answer." He paused for a moment while seemingly to engage in some inner, tumultuous battle. "However I will offer you an explanation, to the best of my abilities."

The elf Lords face was set hard as he spoke. His eyes betraying his aversion to answering, but his voice was as smooth and as gentle as it had remained through all previous explanations.

"Sometimes there is a need that constitutes the taking of a life, although this can never be justified. War is a terrible thing, Elladan, in which so many lives are lost, as well you know. But sometimes, it is necessary. Sometimes a greater good must be upheld and sacrifices made to protect what we hold dear. To uphold the good we must sadly mimic the actions of evil. It is a difficult concept to understand and an even more challenging feat to explain."

"When the last alliance of Elves and Men marched against the forces of Mordor we desolated its army, and while this may not be justifiable, it is excusable through necessity; through our actions we helped to delay a much worse fate. There is no definite answer, but the best I can offer you is that sometimes, and you will know when, once the situation arises, it is a necessary action. One day you will understand it, ion nin," Elrond assured him in a low and despairing monotone.

"But I don't understand, ada. I don't." Elladan's face was plagued with unreasoned worry, as deep within he desperately believed that he should.

With his finger, Elrond traced the creases of the frown that haunted his too young face, effectively smoothing them out of existence.

"And do you know why that is?" Elrond asked, the natural tone of a partial observer.

"Nay." It was a timid reply. To Elladan's surprise, a smile spread across Elrond's face.

"It is because you are not supposed to, you are not yet ready to have such answers. Don't be disheartened," he added after seeing Elladan's expression fall into despair. "Be happy, for such dark thoughts need not trouble you yet. One day, dear Elladan, you shall have the answers you seek, and once gained there is no going back. For now, you should be joyous that they elude you."

Heaving a great sigh, Elladan nodded, the gesture speaking volumes. Acceptance, contentedness, agreement, gratitude. His expression now a neutral blank. At long last he was reassured, and taking the present opportunity, delighted in the Autumn air; cooling against his face and enticing in aroma.

Gracefully, Elrond arose, reaffirming his hand on the elflings shoulder, this time a gesture of love instead of guidance.

"Come, ion nin," he spoke tenderly, a rich smile alighting his lips. The two set off across the silent grounds, once again their steps in an unproposed synchronization.

"I expect Celebrian and Elrohir are wondering where we are."

"I expect they are already aware," smiled Elladan, taking in another deep breath and closing his eyes in attempts to savor the airs alluring scent. Just for a moment longer.

Elrond gave a rich laugh, one that eradicated all worries, labeling them folly at this present moment. He too delighted in the particularly succulent scents stirred up by the light winds passage through the trees.

Some answers come naturally through the passage of time. Some are gained only by self experience. Some are common knowledge while other become such. Some, however, remain elusive to all those who are in search of them, life after life passing out of existence, perishing in a quest of futility. As fast as answers are gained though, questions will always be quicker.

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_Goodness the technical difficulties of posting something :') - Darn it, only just realized that after taking the trouble to italic-ize elvish words this removes it, well that's good!_

_Hopefully I have done the complexities and etherial triats of the elvish race justice._

_Thank you for reading!_

_-One Wish Magic _


	6. Precious Lullabys

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I really like this one-shot :') I'm going with the idea that elfling babies mature very quickly in the mind, while the body is left lacking, kind of the reversal of us. So while Elladan and Elrohir are perfectly aware of the world around them, though only vaguely comprehending, they are no more than a month or two in size.

Hope you enjoy

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Chapter Six: Precious Lullaby's

**Summery:**

_Lullaby's can achieve even the impossible as Celebrian discovers, when all other methods to sooth her sons fail._

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A cold winters moon stood central in the clouded and starless sky. Melancholy grey clouds tinged the impenetrable blackness, mourning the loss of the sun; ghosting sorrowfully across the sky, hastened on a chill breeze, they gave any casual observer the dizzying impression of times passage exaggerated beyond measure, while the remaining world stood still.

The scent of winter clung tightly to the air, whispering the prospect of snow; and a biting coldness enveloped any living thing exposed, in its wrath. Pools of water from recent rainfall collected in the depressions of leaves, had solidified to ice; blinking diamond eyes into the night.

In the shadows of an outcrop stood two elves, still and statuesque, easily surpassing the height of an average man. They stood a small distance apart, speaking low and profoundly. Methodically they traded glances towards the brooding sky, seeming each time to re-evaluate it.

No sound announced her immanent arrival. She appeared like a ghost in the night; swathed in a robe of pristine white, flowing as air. Silver hair with the movement and fluidity of liquid flowed down her back, spilling over her shoulders as water spills over rock. She moved with the gait of a goddess and a grace singular to none. Nestled in the crook of her arms, she held close to her, two tiny elflings, each baring a striking similarity to one another.

Celebrian's features were set into a purposeful expression, however, a remote accent of exasperation lingered around the edges.

With a fond smile she regarded her sons, cocooned in shawls of comfort, their faces buried deep. Lovingly she kissed the crown of their heads, effectively stirring them to unravel from their fetal positions.

First came tiny fingers clenching and unclenching uncertainly in the biting breeze, then came curious expressions on innocent faces and sweeping eyes that seemed to regard all, but with limited understanding.

One of the twins spread his fingers wide, his palm upturned to the sky. He startled suddenly as the breeze, carried in his direction, tickled the newly exposed skin between his fingers. Quickly he clenched his hand into a fist looking wary. After a brief moment or two of contemplation, ever so slowly he relaxed his fingers; inching them erect and splaying them again, only to repeat the exact same action as soon as the wind touched his skin. He made a small noise of confusion, regarding his mother with questioning eyes.

Celebrian gave a musical laugh, an entire orchestra contained in the harmony of her tone.

"It is winter, Elrohir." She informed the curious elfling. His mouth seemed to move around the word but he didn't utter a sound. Instead fixing her with a tranquil smile.

It was evident however, that such a winters night was not to Elladan's favor, he had effectively re-cocooned himself in entire disregard for it.

The elf Lady passed as silent as a whisper through the arched hallways; the two elves standing distanced engaged in low conversation, paid her no heed, or else discounted her presence.

In a singular swift movement, Celebrian inclined her shoulder towards the grand double doors which reared up in front of her, spectacles of great craftsmanship; wrought long ago but enduring in defiance to the effects of age. They parted easily at the lightest of touches, permitting her entrance.

The Halls of Fire were devoid of inhabitants save for the solitary figure of Erestor nestled in the furthest corner, pouring over volume after volume in an eternal search. At the sound of the wind entering the prior sealed hall, he looked up.

His keen gaze fell upon Celebrian from a distance and his lips molded into a sympathetic smile, as his gaze befell the two elflings, who surveyed their surroundings with keen and recognized interest.

Celebrain returned the gesture, but did not further interrupt the advisor who soon turned his attentions back to his prior engagement.

The Halls were warm, as always they were; a great fire danced its rhythm in the hearth at the rooms center, around which congregated an abundance of seating. Usually the focal point of any gathering, but now vacant. Receding into the arched expanse, predecessor of a spacious void, stood an expanse of shelving cases; displaying vast and archaic volumes, each standing erect and attentive. A desk guarded them nearby, which Erestor now occupied; cast in twilight. Removed from the scope of the fire was arranged a second congregation of seating, hand crafted from white wood bark. The hall exuded a sense of tranquility, hence Celebrian's pilgrimage to it.

Silently she converged upon the settle parallel to the flicking tongues of fire contained within the hearth, her long, white robes sweeping the floor in her wake. In a single fluid motion she laid her sons upon the plush ivory cushioning, gently pausing to sooth them as they protested her relinquishing touch.

With both pairs of eyes fixated upon her, she unclasped the cloak she had ere drew around herself, and draped it over her sons, wrapping them snugly within its folds; before taking her place at their sides.

She traced her thumb lightly across the smooth planes of their cheeks in reassurance of her presence.

Her sons remained adamant in their refusal to sleep – despite their eyes being burdened and heavy – a nocturnal habit that had persisted from their very earliest days of infancy.

Why? She had queried of herself countless times ere. Though she was certain now she knew why; they were far to intrigued by the world surrounding them. Curious and feared of missing any occurrence, even in the darkest and most solitary hours of the night.

So intelligent were they already, as the months proceeding their birth dawned a year. It was evident in their wizened, infantile faces, the vast planes of their foreheads; shrouded behind straying locks of hair, and the piercingly intense set of their eyes, so out of place in an oh-so-childlike face. They exuded an understanding that would have been deemed beyond them, but boasted an innocence as pure as freshly fallen snow atop the peak of a great mountain. Oh so perfect contraindications.

Elrohir drew closer to his twin, spurred by their bonded and insatiable need for closeness and the security that came with such a proximity. Elladan made no protests, indeed just as eager as his brother. The two elflings became an entanglement of limbs, and only then settled into an ease of contentment.

Celebrian smiled tenderly at the heartwarming scene, which would combat even the bitterest of winters, and render the its effects futile.

The sky outside darkened to a pressing, voluminous void of blackness and desertion, forsaken now even by the moon. Time had stretched on unpermitted in the absence of her attention, to envelop yet another hour; like so many that had passed before in much the same fashion.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked aloud of her sons, they paid her no heed, entranced by the ethereal glow of the flickering flames, discerning images from within their depths. Their eyes, wondrous orbs glinting in the firelight.

Celebrain heaved a small sigh, smoothing a troublesome tress from her sons eyes; before too allowing herself to become lost in the writhing dance of the shapes beyond. Her mind wandering through a field of memories, relics of a past age.

As silently and as swiftly as the eagles wings, a particular remembrance caught her unawares. Vague in visual and auditory details, it stirred her heart fluttering in tenderness and content.

An aged lullaby of sorts existing from her far distant past, that once Galadriel had used to sooth her in her own infancy. Celebrian recalled with surprising recollection, the words; their calming, comforting effect that had enveloped her in a swirling world of colours and images just beyond comprehension. Filling her with a sense of reassurance that had so temptingly lulled her to sleep during the nights when she had been as troublesome as her own sons.

With contemplative interest, she regarded her boys, whose attention was still averted. They were now no older than she at her mothers first rendition …

The night had consumed time in the way a predator consumes its prey; greedily and with eternal dissatisfaction of insufficiency.

She was willing to try anything as the hour grew later and later, and in the same process earlier and earlier. Drawing in adequate breath, she began to sing softly; her voice a beautiful harmony but with woven undertones of bass and tennor;

_Lay down your sweet and weary head_  
_Night is falling, you have come to journeys end._

Her singing drew their attention immediately, their surprised eyes regarding her with interest. Their small flailing movements ceasing to stillness.

_Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before._  
_They are calling, from across the distant shore._

The scratching of a quill end against crisp parchment in alteration with the gentle swoosh of turning pages, which had provided an accompanying background noise thus far, now was no more. Erestor had paused, poised on the edge of his seat with a curious look of recollection adorning the shapely features of his face.

_Why do you weep?_  
_What are these tears upon your face?_  
_Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away._  
_Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping. _

The twins listened intently as her words washed over them enfolding them in comfort, unable to resist their enchanting effects that bade them sleep.

Erestor appeared lost in the folds of a waking dream, or else a deep remembrance.

_What can you see on the horizon?_  
_Why do the white gulls call?_  
_Across the sea, a pale moon rises_  
_The ships have come to carry you home. _

Their gaze, which was trained upon her, began to grow a little distant, their breathing becoming softer and rhythmic.

Suddenly Elladan startled a little, blinking rapidly, fighting against the soothing influence of his mothers voice, Elrohir closely following suit. Their efforts were in vain however, for soon after their eyes grew distant and shadowed once again.

_And all will turn to silver glass,_  
_A light on the water, all souls pass. _

Their eyes became as dull as pebbles and surrendered their attentiveness, their features became lax; smoothing to contented planes. Elladan's fingers flexed, feeling their emptiness and searching blindly for their bounty.

_Hope fades, into the world of night._  
_Through shadows falling out of memory and time. _

Cautious but needing, the small fingers navigated the folds of the material that swaddled him, before longingly becoming lost in the depths of his brothers hair, entwining with the tresses and effectively confirming their residence there. Elrohir did not stir, nor indeed made any movement at all, the contact a gentle and well rehearsed occurrence. Celebrain smiled at the tender scene which touched her heart.

_Don't say we have come now to the end,_  
_White shores are calling;_  
_You and I will meet again._

Her sons grew still from that moment on and remained so, their minds scouring far distant lands in a slumber Celebrian though would never come. The elf Lady closed her eyes, allowing herself more than an age later to become entranced in the song that had prominently tinged her earliest infancy. Her face serene , smooth in a remembrance of blissful endearment.

_And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping. _  
_What can you see on the horizon?_  
_Why do the white gulls call?_  
_Across the sea, a pale moon rises_  
_The ships have come to carry you home._

Her voice grew quieter, fading away as the song drew to it's diminuendo. As aged as it was, it had achieved what all else could not; the slumber of her sons.

_And all will turn to silver glass _  
_A light on the water,_  
_Grey ships pass into the West._

That night she kept a silent vigil at their sides, just as she had done many times previous, and just as she would persist to do until she was needed no more, such was her role, her duty, her charge.

She delicately kissed each of their innocent faces. Their troublesome ways a diminishing nothingness in comparison to her eternal and gratified love.

* * *

_I love this song, and it's tune makes for a good lullaby :)_

_Thank you for reading!_

_-One Wish Magic._


	7. A Dangerous Misadventure

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_A bit of a long one sorry._

_Erm, there really isn't any important notes for me to mention, just here Estel is around six years old, and i have written the twins older than they usually are; wich seemed to fit in line with the story. Also, the tree mentioned carrys no real significance, but again it seemed to fit with the story :')_

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Seven : A Dangerous Misadventure

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_**Summery:** _

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_Estel is resentful of his tender age which bars him from accompanying his brothers, this leads him to seek an adventure of his own inadvertently baring him to dangerous consequences. Lost, frightened and pursued Estel runs for his life. Will those who love him be in time to save him? _

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* * *

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Estel sat perched upon a large boulder, looking out across the training fields with a wistful air. His knees were drawn close to his chest his arms encircling them; holding them in place. His chin rested upon them in a dejected depiction.

He heaved a weighted sigh, fiddling with a straying thread on the sleeve of his tunic for a moment, before dismally turning his attention back to the training field where Glorfindel and Erestor sparred fiercely but in good nature.

His heart ached and longed to join them, but his tender age and his diminutive statue always rebuked his desires.

The only two accomplices who would willingly let him participate were 'Dan and 'Ro, and much against Elrond's wishes. They would engage with him in sparring sessions; using a trio of beautifully crafted swords which the twins had whittled that very same Summer. They would strike with the precision that was their natural ally, but never to quickly as to leave him unable to block any of their attacks. His bothers also demonstrated various blocking techniques when they alternated the attack, and further instructed their youngest kindred on how best to strike. It was a game of skill, but to Estel still no more than a game.

He smiled to recall this, but soon it dimmed, like Summer turning into Winter, when his mind harshly reminded him of their temporary absence. He slumped even further into a melancholy state.

The sun that beat down upon his back and tickled his bare neck, did nothing to alleviate his sour mood as it usually did. It just made him long more fervently for the company of his brothers, and increased his feelings of solitude and seclusion.

He hated being so young, and small; he was a prevention unto himself. He could neither read nor write to merit enough to be of any assistance to ada when he retired, albeit sparingly, to long and evidently important hours in his study; sometime accompanied by his advisers, other times in complete solitude.

Estel had tried, sincerely he had, to improve his linguistic skills; but some letters remained so difficult to form and sound that his efforts were continuously flawed; and some words so lengthy that they made his head hurt just looking at them.

Neither was he tall enough, nor experienced enough to ride alongside his brothers as he so yearned. Instead he was forced to stand by and watch, as time and time again – like a repetitive dream that rendered him powerless in its face – they left without him, all the while, he, longing desperately to accompany them. Just as he had done today, watching them mount their steeds and depart with doleful eyes like saddened diamonds.

Sorrowfully, Estel realized that Glorfindel and Erestor had concluded their sparring session. His final source of entertainment rendered obsolete.

He threw his head back, sighing; gazing up into the depths of the perfectly blue sky, disrupted not by the single presence of cloud. Leagues of golden sunshine stretched out all around him, the only disruption in the image of sun touched perfection coming in the form of short shadows cast upon the ground. There existed no presence of wind in the glorious midday weather. The day exhibited perfect conditions for an adventure, more prefect than he ever remembered seeing.

Longing stirred within him again, gripping him and refusing to give up hold. But he could not comply to impulse, he remained under oath to stay within sight of Imladris; an oath he had sworn to ada, and one which he remained adversely unwilling to break.

He let his gaze sweep the surroundings, before, seemingly of its own accord, it fell and rested upon the dense and extensive gathering of trees that lay a small distance away to the West.

He fought temptation with an ever waning will as the foundations of a brilliant idea formed within his mind.

He could see the realm of woodland from his vantage point – therefore it remained within sight of Imladris and thus, a permitted place of wandering; so his oath would remain firmly intact.

With this revelation his mind was set, uncomprehending of the dangers of straying alone on such a misadventure.

Finding the vicinity completely deserted, Estel made for the weapons house, a place he was usually disallowed, intending to gather his bow, quiver of arrows and wooden sparring sword; all of which seemed appropriate tools for his adventure. His reasoning held that as long as he was in and out quickly, there would be no reason for anyone to become angered.

Reaching the door he found it stuck tight, as quite often it was; rather then be dismayed however, he employed a technique learned upon observation of his brothers regularity of use. A well aimed kick, with just the right amount of force freed the door easily.

Estel attempted it. His first kick lacked precision, but his second sufficed and saw the door swing open easily.

Sunlight glittered upon the hilts and blades of unsheathed swords, encrusted with jewels that cast a spectrum of colours upon the ceiling. Spearheads glowed like beacons set in brackets, lined uniformly against the walls. Estel gasped, shielding his eyes slightly behind his hand at the brightness of the sight that beheld him.

He took careful, measured steps, knowing exactly where his own things resided, but exhibiting caution in the face of such close and solitary proximity to the vastly arrayed mass of weaponry; poised for action.

He reached the furthest corner, the only shaded spot, reserved, though unofficially, for himself; next to Elladan and Elrohir's things.

He first extracted his quiver, stocked with an abundance of arrows, each crafted by his brothers hands. Fumbling with the clasp for a few moments, his face a picture of concentration, he finally succeeded in securing it to his back. Next he handled his bow, raising an arm, he threaded it over his head so that it too lay diagonally across his back, the tip of which resting beyond his shoulder. Finally he fixed his whittled sword in place through a loop in the side of his belt so that it rested against his leg, just brushing short of his ankle.

Promptly, Estel made his exit, his steps just as cautious in his retreat. He quickly secured the door behind him, pleased that – in the confines of his mind at least – he had not broken any of the injunctions placed upon him.

In certification that his proceedings were permissible, he gave the grounds on last sweeping glance, for if they were not, then surely someone would halt his course?

Affirming that his intentions were indeed permitted, with an ever growing excitement, he set out towards the gathering of trees at a brisk pace; his smile now one of serenity and in equal proportion to the brightness of the sun.

Had he been older and wiser, he may have took opportunity to pause and marvel at the ease of how he had slipped out of sight, if that had been his intention; for of course it had not. He remained unawares that it was not a nature of permit that stayed his ada's halt of such an expedition, but that his absence had not yet been accounted for. And as he walked, under false impression, further from the sanctuary of Imladris, the more readily he walked into danger.

The lush, green grass was springy underfoot, a blanket upon the earth. It accentuated the slight bounce in Estel's carefree steps; his gait one of excitement. No happier was he then when out walking.

He imagined himself a great ranger – like those his brothers had spoke about – with noble heart and courageous nature; felling foes, protecting the people and indulging in a new and all together different adventure with each new day that dawned. He thought if he really were a ranger, he would never tire of it, for even the very idea was one without flaw.

Extracting his crafted sword in one swift, fluid motion; he lunged, twisted, blocked and advanced in a display of skilled precision – such expertness and prowess looking so out of place when taking in his innocent face – before finally bringing his weapon down in one last fatal blow, defeating his invisible enemy. His expression a mask of mastered concentration throughout, which made the display even more disconcerting.

Replacing his sword he continued on, regaling himself happily with his favorite walking song; his small and angelic voice one of a tuneful persuasion, carrying a richness that was not usually attributed to the tongue of men, and a faintly accented pronunciation.

The sun warmed him pleasantly from her dominant position in the sky, lightening his heart; now finally redeemed from the dark, devoid chasms it had found itself lost in. Gladdened once more it spurred him only to contentedness.

In the rear, the finer details of Imladris dwindled out of sight, save for that of the keen eyed elf. Estel did not look back, the notion of still being within his erected boundaries in the forefront of his mind, for if he had; he may have hesitated to stray further. The distance he had covered already far exceeding that of what he would have anticipated from his perch of epiphany overlooking his home training grounds.

As it remained; Estel approached the sparse saplings that bordered the edge of the woodland with a carefree air. He gave a small laugh at the tiny saplings no bigger than he, looking like nothing more than a collection of spindle like twigs rearing from the ground, donned against their wishes with little green caps of foliage.

He proceeded past them, standing like sentries either side of him in an nonuniform arrangement. He extended the width of his arms, brushing his small hands against the new leaves, which felt like feathers to the touch.

Time seemed to lose all meaning in that timeless surround, minutes, hours and days could all pass in much the same fashion, the forest as unaltered as it had remained for an age. Day held no sway, and night no hold over this mysterious places continuity; forgotten in the lands of its existence.

With each consecutive step Estel took, the surrounding trees seemed to grow taller before his very eyes and progress in age, like the life cycle from infant to elder playing out at an unprecedented pace. Their barks grew thicker, more extensive, their branches twisting this way and that, reaching out like hands for the comfort of another.

Estel proceeded boldly further into the depths of the woodland. Ere long the tree's height surpassed anything other upon Middle Earth, save their own kin. Their aged and twisted branches weaving a canopy above, through which filtered the suns light; each section like an individual sunbeam striking the earth. Their differing shades of bark; brown, silver, mahogany, adorned with splashes of green as moss snaked up their structures; giving the silent giants an air of secrecy.

No path marked a set course, for each must find their own. Estel followed that which was laid down by his heart and guided by his instincts, trusting that neither would lead his astray.

* * *

Lord Elrond sighed heavily, his distraction evident as he tried in vain to concentrate on the words of the manuscript that lay before him.

He blinked forcefully in attempts to re-affirm his focus, but like the numerous times previous found his mind; of its own violation, veering off course.

Relinquishing his impossible task to impracticality, he stood and crossed his study in three large, majestic strides; coming to stand beside the window that overlooked the expanse of the Last Homely House.

He breathed deeply the fresh air, allowing it to fill his lungs, to calm him. There existed not even a breath of wind to accompany the suns rays.

With long dexterous fingers, he reached up to massage his temples in hopes to alleviate the distinctive tension that resided there like a burdening weight, creasing the plains of his forehead.

Something was wrong, he could feel it. Sense it, within every fiber of his being. Taste the very essence of danger upon his lips.

But yet, something barred him from seeing this forewarned malice within his mind. Denial, perhaps? A false sense of security on his part?

Whatever the reasoning it frustrated the Elf Lord to no end.

He took a few more cleansing breaths and with mastered ability, rid himself of all emotions, negative or otherwise. Closing his eyes to aid concentration, he searched deep within the confines of his mind for the elusive, infirm vision that would grant him clarity.

He explored spiraling depths of colours, sounds, emotions and memories; searching. Following the rapidly fading trail of imprint that steered his course; teasing threads of thought which unwound like yarn and floated aimlessly without purpose.

Mostly his foresight was easy to attain, waiting just outside the realm of consciousness to be addressed, but other times it was harder to retrieve, becoming lost or barred by emotions and thoughts which allowed no passage. It was an imperfect practice, but often invaluable, and the Elf Lords hold over it was both awe inspiring and admirable.

Finally, he struck victory and a state of almost meditation enveloped him as images of present and future charted their course within his minds eye.

Fleetingly he glimpsed Estel walking alone, strayed far from where his boundaries lay. The young human bore his bow and arrow, and a third weapon of which the Elf Lord had previously remained unawares, even if it were only a replica. He heard within his own mind the innocence of Estel's intentions – the sound echoing and haunting – his initial misery at his brothers temporary departure and Elrond's own pressing task, and thus following, his exuberance at the thought of an adventure.

Elrond's heart stirred, ached and endeared as one; while worry tinged his separated thoughts at the idea of his foster son so far afield and lacking apt supervision. Fear settled in the pit of his stomach at the realization of the ease of how misfortune could befall the young human, or failing that, he could do himself a mischief.

Still Estel wandered further; unafraid, into the densest area of the woodland, to he this remained all a great adventure. With a small start, Elrond realized he was tracking something; footsteps, set into the still damp earth …

Quite suddenly, the vision changed; became darker, more menacing. He could fell Estel's fear as he ran blind, having lost his way. Flitting beyond the reach of his vision, Elrond could just discern the figure of a beast, bowed on all fours, stalking Estel like a shadow, intent on one thing and one thing alone.

"Estel!"

* * *

As such, Estel's adventure was rapidly losing its former appeal, and his excitement diminished. He had found nothing worth finding – no specimen of interest, no discovery of merit; and all in all he had deduced himself to be a very poor explorer. His feet hurt and he was hungry.

As if to drive home the point of its neglect, his stomach grumbled audibly; emitting an almost monstrous roar. He laughed a little, his unquenchable hunger and his stomachs, more of often that not, inappropriately occurring grumbles of such an announcement, were the subject of much good-natured teasing from Elladan and Elorhir. He wrapped his arms tightly around his torso in order to stifle the sound, wishing once more that his brothers were accompanying him.

He knew well enough what was edible and what was not; having recently been tutored by Erestor on the properties of plants, fungi and roots native to the surrounding area, an invaluable knowledge by any a persons reckoning. But he knew not where to begin looking, and his less than desirable exploratory skills gave him no aid.

Sighing, he turned his gaze upward. As luck would have it, his eyes swept over and came to rest upon an ageless apple tree, its branches so vast and extensive that they could not possibly emanate from a singular trunk.

His mouth moistened to behold the largest, roundest and reddest apples his eyes had ever had the pleasure to regard. His tongue ran across his lips longingly and his stomach shouted in demand for even just one bite. To behold, the tree looked to bear rubies for fruit instead of apples; which blazed like individual sunsets.

Excitedly, he took to hand his bow, reaching behind him into his quiver he extracted an arrow and expertly fixed it to the string. He sought a target with eyes wondrous and bright. Confirming one with a smile, he took aim, and fired.

The arrow sailed through the air with grace, arching towards its destination; Estel watched his shot proudly. He was no match for his brothers skills, but in comparison to those of his own age, he deemed himself outright victor.

The arrowhead severed the tip of the stalk which connected tree and fruit like an umbilical chord. The strike accordingly dispelling the arrows momentum, and instead of continuing along the peak of its arch; its altered course bade it lightly to the ground, proceeding its target.

Estel reached out and caught the apple in the cup of his hands, the arrow lightly spearing the ground obediently at his feet; the perfect execution and conclusion of an all too admirable shot. He retrieved the arrow before replacing it back in his quiver.

He chose as his roost the trunk of the nearest tree; a deep depression disfiguring the bark and effectively casting a sheltered seating area. The silver bark was cold and smooth against his back; untouched by the light of the sun. Gnarled roots protruded from the ground, paused in mid motion of strangulation.

With ravenous hunger, he bit with avidity into the supple, ruby red, unblemished skin. Juice flooded into his mouth and moistened his lips.

The taste, was unlike anything other. Salivating, and as sweet as honeysuckle, but more than that; it was the taste of a warm summers evening remembered for an eternity. It was the taste of contentment and thoughts of endearment. It was the taste of life and the fruit it bore.

Closing his eyes, Estel sighed with enjoyment; never ere had he encountered the fortune to pallet a fruit so delectable, and never again thought he would.

His eyes snapped back open a moment later in face of the revelation that had just occurred to him; he had found it! Something worthy of discovery, and by the Valar it as worthy! This tree, so vast and extensive, shrouded from knowledge of the world, with its fruit distinguished above all others, was the prize of his adventure.

He gave a wry laugh, his face lighted with glee, set into an expression of irony. The moment he stopped searching, he stumbled, quite unintentionally, across something much greater than his conscious efforts would have been able to extract in the first instance. It was a fine lesson to learn.

Finishing the apple almost repentantly, he was left with no other option than discarding the bare core on the forest floor, where it lay lacking the splendor it deserved.

He thought about taking another as fabricated evidence of his tale, but then something struck him quite surprisingly; a realization dawned, that in actual fact, he wished his discovery to remain a secret. His very own secret.

As often occurs in the world; fine things elude the knowledge of its entirety. Kept as hidden and guarded secrets by their discoverers, for their own selfish, unjust or admirable reasons. This was one of those times, though Estel's reasoning was neither selfish, unjustly nor admirable, just that every man liked to claim stake to something. Perhaps it were true then, what Glorfindel had once said: each man bears his own secret.

As he crawled out from between the protruding roots, like small hills in the earth, his right hand brushed against a shapely depression set into the still partially moist soil. He halted, his interest spiked, and gazed down; his eyes, though barely, making out the indentation of a footprint.

The foot was padded, easily discernible due to the roundness of the slightly separated indents; and clearly canine. Smaller indents presented themselves to Estel's touch, concise, sharp and deeply penetrating, proceeding the four footed print. Claws.

Carefully, he felt a few inches in front of him, predominantly relying on touch and disregarding for the moment his other senses, again his fingers brushed against a similar shapely depression. A new excitement burned within him, birthing a further extension of his adventure.

As recent as the beginning of that very same week, his brothers had spent the day in its entirety explaining, instructing and demonstrating to him the finer points of tracking; due to the bad weather that had kept them grounded inside and Estel's unrelenting torrent of questions concerning their hunting trips.

Now opportunity presented itself so temptingly to Estel. A fine circumstance in which to test his so recently acquired skills, it seemed a shame to turn down such a chance.

It gnawed at him increasingly persistently, teetering near the precipice that surrounded rational thought. It filled his head with a wave of new and wonderful ideas, accompanied by a childlike longing to act on a whim, and which believed; if you just stretched far enough it were even possible to pluck a star from the very night sky.

The hour grew later and he should turn back, that much he knew. But yet his own body seemed adverse to complying with his mind, preferring instead to gravitate towards the easily dismissive tracks that had so entirely captivated his attention.

He could follow them for a few feet, just to get the feel for it; for after all that was what he wanted, if this venture did not yield any enjoyability or results he would then turn back, as was his initial intention. Yes. That is what he would do. A minor detour would be of harm to no-one.

Content with his compromise, he crouched beside the nearest indented footprint and extended his hand; feeling the moist soil that was cold to the touch beneath his fingers, so recent that the exposed soil had not been warmed by the suns rays, nor robbed via evaporation of its moisture. He estimated it to be 10, 20 minutes old, but no longer. Whatever animal it were, it lay close.

He moved quickly, sharply; always crouched low to the ground. Sight and touch his guiding senses, he progressed steadily but carefully. Had he been forewarned of the ease at which the ground could be misinterpreted, he may have exercised a resistant caution to spur him away from this folly quest, known how one could act so convincingly on a whim that looked solidly evidential, or, how simple, it remained, to be lead astray.

Eyes always downcast, he inched all the time closer towards the heart of the woodland. Darkness grew and thrived around him, just hovering on the edge of sight. The only indication of the drawing brightness above was the small emerald glow the dense canopy of leaves emitted, but the effect of this was ingested by the thick blackness. No cold shiver traced its way down Estel's spine, and not a single sliver of fear prickled Estel's neck like the tread of an insect, too engrossed was he in his task.

The minutes drew on against his knowledge and realization, time snatching each consecutive one with greater and greater haste.

Still he pressed on, navigating the course of his misadventure. Little did he know or expect the danger that awaited him. An innocent view of the world may be a beautiful one, but it is by no means a true one. He did not even feel the ominous blackness as it closed in around him, secluding him, endangering him.

His extended hand brushed against a particularly deep set print, with a two finger density, here the animal had evidently lingered for an extended period of time. Its corresponding partners drawing equal and parallel to it. He traced the outline, wondering vaguely what animal could leave such a peculiar print.

Suddenly he gasped, startled, and inadvertently retracted his hand; it was still warm! The print still retained a vague sliver of heat, a legacy to its warm blooded predecessor. He replaced his hand and felt as it drained away to coldness. He was so close.

Estel's heart hammered in the encasement of his chest as a wave of excitement enveloped him in its swirling mass, at the succession of his efforts. He noticed however, that as the swell frittered and abated, the thunderous pulsations of his heart did not cease. It made his breath short and panicked as in the case of fear, but fear was the one thing he remained exempt from, or so he thought.

He returned to walking, still bowed low, but this time he moved slowly and with noticeable, yet undefined caution, knowing not why he did so. His excitement was banished, usurped by anxiety that prevailed his every sense. His gait one of repressed tension and his eyes involuntary cast suspicion. Despite his newly acquired aversion to it, he could not seem to steer himself from his chosen course.

As abruptly as the fell of a fatal sword blow in an unprovoked attack, the tracks drew up short.

Estel halted. For the first time really becoming aware of his solitary seclusion. Fear gripped him in that moment, he had wondered too far, too far from home, too far from any beaten track. He whirled around, searching for his way back but loosing all sense of direction to desperation. Hot tears of fear and frustration stung his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. All around he could feel eyes watching him hungrily, blinking out of existence whenever he caught them in his sight, and then reappearing as soon as his back was turned.

He wanted to cry out, for ada, for his brothers, for anyone. But his throat was too dry and his breathing too erratic and panicked to incubate the sound.

Suddenly, his heart stopped dead. His breathing ceased and involuntary shivers snaked down his spine freezing his very core; his blood ran ice within his veins.

From somewhere, of undetectable origin, emitted a low, rumbling growl. The sound spoke danger, like from the very throat of a lion. The woodland fell deathly silent in response, even the slight breath of the wind seemed to blot out of existence. It was a lustfully fierce sound that thirsted for decease.

A small whimper of fear built in Estel's throat and chocked him. What had he done?

Pawing steps met his ears, light, stealthy and poised; those of a hunter. They mocked him, circled him and advanced upon him through the shadows.

Estel's heart beat unprecedentedly and deafeningly, making up for lost time. The sound of blood pulsating filled his ears, left him deaf to even the crushing silence; but not quite immune to the stalking footfalls. It was a hellish nightmare. All realism had vanished from his existence in that moment, his sight seemed to possess that distorted slowness found only in a dream, and his movements, too clumsy and not near fast enough to escape this impending doom.

A twig snapped harshly underfoot to Estel's right. He let out a gasp, tightly shutting his eyes and clenching his his clammy palms, holding them dearly to his chest; wishing beyond all hope that this would cease. His mind told him to run, with all haste he was capable, but his legs would not comply.

He remained trapped; by fear, as prey to a predator and within the confines of his own mind.

The footfalls advanced and then ceased completely. Silence descended once more, save for the traitorous thumps of Estel's heart. Coldness crawled the length of his back, the quiet more unnerving than the stalking steps themselves.

Cautiously, certain of a falsehood calm, Estel opened his eyes, feared at what they would come to regard. With a mounting sense of dread that lay heavily in the pit of his stomach, he gave his surroundings an ominous sweeping glance.

Between two hedge bushes which occupied the shadowy fork of a pair of parallel trees, shining brightly like two orbs of purest moonlight, stared a set of predatory, yellow eyes; the pupils of which, dilated with a yearning desire. They leered at him.

Estel blinked rapidly in attempts to dispel the image like so many before it. This time, however, the phenomenon did not did not fade back into his imagination, but remained all the more vivid, and undoubtedly real.

Slowly, he began inching backwards; his limbs finally responsive to the commands that bade them move. All the while his face a depiction of horror. The creature paralleled his movements, advancing forwards even as he retreated, low growls continuously ripping from its throat.

Estel quickened pace, his steps clumsy and ultimately betraying. His heel caught on a protruding root outside his field of vision, tripping him. He fell hard onto the forest floor, which lay littered with debris that scratched roughly against his back, and cut welts into the palms of his hands, which he had flung outwards in attempts to break his fall. They bled freely and stung like a thousand pin pricks.

From the shadows, menacingly emerged a great grey wolf, its height easily surpassing that of Estel's. Its shoulders were broad and tensed, under the thick fur muscle was easily discernible. Its sleek body was lithe and powerful, like the coil of a spring. The rugged fur was coarse and flecked with patches of white and black that diluted the grey. The animal maintained a savage snarl, white teeth pointed like sword tips, eternally bared, set into a fierce face.

It threw back its head in a show of dominance, then slunk easily into a crouch; ready to pounce at any given moment, and once more advanced on Estel.

Panic stricken, Estel grappled for a vice beneath him by which to pull himself away, he trode sticks as his feet desperately sought anchorage to propel himself backwards. No thought entered his head other than escape. He crawled retreating, still reduced to an active spread eagled position on the floor, but it was to no avail.

The wolf lept.

Estel screamed, fearing his life was forfeit.

* * *

A short distance away, Elladan reigned in his steed with a gentle touch, the beast so accustomed to his presence that it sensed his maters wishes rather than needing them conveyed. Elrohir did likewise beside him.

The rhythmic gallop of hooves diminished to a steady canter as the twins converged on the ribbon stream, the first break in the vast green wilderness, to water their horses.

The horizon lay before them, shrouded by the great elevations of hills to the right and perfectly undisturbed ahead. The expanse of ground before them was a blanket of green, flecked with the multi-tone colours of wildflower and sparse intervals of trees. A woodland army of which amassed in the shadow of the two elves and their steeds.

The elven horses, standing higher than those of men, breathed easily despite their previous pace; not so lightly succumbing to exertion.

Their riders sat erect, commanding a royal presence, exuding an air that called for respect, and casting a figure that inspired awe. Silver cloaks flowed like water around their shoulders, rippling like a leaf caught in summers wind.

"Easy," Elrohir called to the two grey stallions, when their steady pace quickened again as their sights set on the cool, clear water that flowed ahead.

With inclined heads, the two stallions whinnied collectively in a display of mischievous, but good natured disobedience, a trick they had long since mimicked of their masters.

Elladan laughed aloud, his royal composure shattering, and threw his brother a mocking glace that was suggestive of his lack of authority over his like minded steed.

Elrohir grinned broadly in reply, in an unthinking moment where only compulsion reigned victorious. Renouncing all pretense of power over his stallions kindled spirit, so much like his own; Elrohir bowed low against the stallions neck and whispered in a tone that spoke of his conceit;  
"Noro lim."

The dapple grey stallion, so almighty in stature and so graceful in gait, whuffed pleasurably, as a shiver of excitement rippled his flanks. The animals muscles tensed, tautening underneath the skin to harness their power; the hooves beat faster, harder against the compacted earth, quickening to an unprecedented pace.

Elladan anticipated his brothers sudden actions as if they were his own; mirroring them with alarming precision, which mean Elrohir never gained an inch on his twin.

Elladan felt a smile whisper on his lips that had not adorned them for many a year. It was a comfortable sensation; like stepping into a old pair of robes, remnants of a past that has been marred by the future and now seemed lost to the present. It was a smile that spoke more juvenile times, of a fiery spirit that used to burn and roam unchallenged, but which now had to be suppressed. He stole a glance at his brother and twin, finding the same expression reflected on the alike face.

As one, they flew. With the grace and majesty of an eagle, captured in a rare moment when their responsibilities forsook them and bitter memories served only as a fretful dream. The excitement, the exhilaration, the thrill. In that small elapse of time, they were elflings again.

Solid ground gave way to foaming water as clear as the cloudless sky, skittering over rocks in an impatient fashion, which it enveloped in its hurried folds. The horses' hooves awakened as army of spherical, rainbow spectrum droplets, which flew like hawks from the point of impact before falling back to earth like a cloudless rain that emanated from no discernible source. The water rushed to compensate its disturbance; swirling and lapping around the stallions ankles.

The mighty horses ducked their heads and drank deeply the cool liquid.

Patting their immense muscled necks and earning two contented whuffs in return, Elladan and Elrohir dismounted with a grace of movement which was stark in comparison to their previous lighthearted excitability. Their expressions baring nothing in similarity to their ere joviality, now a mask of pensive interest.

The two elves stood at the waters edge, Elladan stooped; refilling the water-skin that hung at his waist, from deep under the surface of the water, while Elrohir surveyed their surroundings with an air of ease and enjoyment; shifting his bow so that it hung more comfortably across his back.

Elladan took a long, savoring drought from the replenished skin, before handing it to Elrohir who mirrored this movement and then handed it back to be filled for later.  
"A fine day," observed Elrohir keenly.  
"Aye, that it is," agreed Elladan, stoppering the further refilled skin and replacing it. "Perfect conditions for riding."

Having no set course, nor direction – a rare occurrence in these days when riding was born from a cause that demanded it, rather than simple pleasure alone – the two elves paced the length of the river edge, seeking a desire that compelled them to any direction.

They came up short; grounded by a sense that bade them to remain and linger; as if on the precipice of some impending disaster.

The air, despite its pleasant summer warmth seemed to chill them, sending pinprick stings across their porcelain skin. A collective dread settled heavily in their stomachs and a sense of ominous foreboding weighted their limbs. Adrenaline pooled within them, readying them for an onslaught. Something, most defiantly, was amiss.

From deep within the very heart of the woodland emanated a horrifically fearful scream that sounded so familiar and so unnervingly strange at the same time; distorted by distance and muffled somewhat by the vast array of trees, but still ringing victorious as the loudest and most fear educing sound.

The two stallions neighed in panic and pitch to match, leaving the water in a flurry and converging on their masters; who stood deathly still and silent, their faces set in identical expressions of muted horror and fear. Elf and beast alike knew that scream.

Suddenly, the spell was broken. Panicked expressions gave way to panicked movements and panicked shouts of;  
"Estel!"

Single-handedly, the two elves swung themselves up onto the backs of their steeds as they galloped by. As one they charged into the woodland, desperately seeking the source of the sound.

* * *

In a defining moment; Estel's movements; orchestrated by a force outsider himself, tore him from dangers path. He threw himself sidewards, too quickly for the wolf to alter the momentum of its pounce which propelled it forward to no bounty. A snarl ripped around curved lips and accentuated bared teeth.

Estel scrambled to his feet; again hastened by a foreign force, his chest rising and falling spasmodically in gasped breaths of sheer terror. If there had existed any previous doubts about the feral wolfs intentions, there was left no such uncertainty now.

Those yellow, hungered eyes spoke clear enough. Like orbs they were, the last two glimpses of the sun that Estel would see before his world fell into unending darkness.

He tore his unwilling gaze away and ran; ran blind, ran with no sense of direction and quite literally, ran for his life.

All the while hunting paw falls stalked him; from behind, to the side, out in front ready to ensnare him. They toyed with him in a deadly game from which there would be only one victor. Each of their muffled sounds echoed his demise, matching pace with his thudding heart, almost teasing it into submission.

Estel knew not where to run, there was no safe haven to shelter him, no tree now anymore distinguishable from the former or the latter, all detail lost to a rudimentary monotone, an unending nightmare.

Nothing felt right, nothing felt secure. The whole experience seemed to possess as insubstantial dreamlike quality that cast everything in unreality.

He barely felt that harsh ground as it rose and fell underneath his frantic footfalls, the burning protest of his muscles only succeeded to spur him onwards; the sensation an all too poignant reminder of the precarious balance in which his life hung.

He veered his blind mans course to the left; all light now swallowed to a twilight semi-darkness. The dense brush, hidden from sight in the darkness ensnared him as he ran obliviously into its trap. Spindled twigs like spiders legs captured him in their grasp, ripping at his cloths and bare skin with a vicious brutality.

He let loose a yell of absolute panic, calling continuously for aid in both elvish and the tongue of men; ensnared as he was like a fly in the web of a spider.

He writhed and struggled against his bonds, his breathing nothing more than panicked moans of terror, his chest heaving in effort to satisfy his need for oxygen and his eyes, sightless voids, haunted by images of fear, blind to all else.

All struggle ceased however, when hot pungent breath pricked the back of his neck; chilling instantaneously before creeping down his spine in a douse of coldness. His stance became rigid, his vision swirling like an underwater current. His heart missed a beat; then a second; then a third; temporarily arresting as if its very beats were the signal drums for death. Fear churned tumultuously in his stomach and his blood ran ice within his veins. Terror dulled his every sense into near none existence.

With movements so slow that they were barely discernible, Estel turned his head to regard the feral monster. Compelled by an unreasoned urge to glimpse once again the face of danger. Men, as he would later discovered often suffered such a compulsion; a danger unseen posed a far more intimidating threat than any which could be regarded.

His gaze was met by bared teeth – poised just inches from his neck – which caged a low, satisfied rumbling sound, emitting from deep within the animals throat.

His strangled scream shattered the stillness. The wolf startled, lunging forwards. Estel twisted desperately, wrenching himself free of the hands that imprisoned him, and not a moment too soon.

For a second time, the wolfs attack yielded no gain. A terrifying snarl ripped through the animals chest.

Estel ran and kept on running, not sparring a backwards glance. How close his life played near the jaws of death. The wolf gave chase gaining meter by meter inch by inch; but never surpassing Estel, too intent on the sport of the hunt rather than the instant gratification its conclusion yielded.

Estel knew not how long he ran, maybe hours, maybe minutes. Time adopted that overstretched quality in which minutes seemed to span a year and a year an entire lifetime. Man could run a thousand leagues before the elapse of a singular second, or so it felt.

Ere long his strides became labored, laced with exhaustion, each step became harder and more leeching of energy that the former and less than the latter. His lungs seared with pain, his panting breaths only worsening the agony. The muscles in his legs quivered like a dying flame, threatening to betray him, to fail at any moment; able to bare his weight no longer. His head pounded in perfect synchronization with his heart, fulfilling a lifelong quota in just a few short seconds.

The wolf showed no signs of tiring at Estel's backwards glance, built for endurance as he was not. The animal sniffed the air pleasurably as if smelling Estel's defeat.

It was a stone. Barely bigger then his enclosed fist, which tripped Estel. It was stone that measured strides would have bypassed mockingly, but one that failing steps could not help but be betrayed by. He went down, and this time her did not get back up; lacking the energy, strength and determination too.

The growling wolf converged on him, pacing just inches from him. Estel remained as stationary as a clover on a windless afternoon, gazing up at his adversary with pleading, doleful eyes, struggling to catch his breath from a combination of terror and exhaustion.

The was surely the end.

Without warning the wolf lunged, this time its aim infallible. Estel threw his arms before his eyes; shielding them from regarding his last moments of life. He prepared himself for the immense pain that was about to consume him. He prepared himself for deaths strike …  
It never came.

Just at that moment Elladan and Elrohir burst through the trees. Their shared countenance became a hybrid of fear and anger to regard the scene that befell them.

Estel lay curled on the ground, shielding his eyes with the arms of blood reddened hands, shrouding a pallid and scratched face. His tunic was torn roughly at the shoulder, his tousled hair was adorned with a ranging display of forest debris. His small size seemed to shrink further in their eyes.

The grey, black and white flecked wolf – larger than any of its kind the twins had seen before – landed mere center-meters from Estel, who gave no movement having renounced himself to his end. It sunk into a low, growling crouch at the elves instantaneous appearance, baring its teeth in threat.

Elrohir emitted a fearsome cry, urging his steed forward in a battle charge. The wolf yelped, turning tail and retreating into the forest, Elrohir pursuing. With nimble fingers as deadly as sword edges, Elrohir fixed an arrow to his bow, the intent of his mission all too clear.

Meanwhile, Elladan converged on his foster brother. Leaping from his saddle, he scooped the young human up into his arms, holding him close, so close that it seemed if they remained this way for ever anguish would not longer hold sway upon the world.

The young human startled to his touch, a scream dying in his parched throat, but soon sank into the strong, comforting embrace.

Estel shook in his brothers arms, his body in its entirety quivering in a delayed response His breathing, sparring and erratic matched his heart rate, too quick and unsatisfactory to his bodies demanding need.

A profound sadness overcame Elladan, chilling his heart, at his younger brothers evident disturbance.  
"You are alright tithen gwador. It is over and you are safe," he murmured soothingly, comfortingly; running his fingers through Estel's tousled tresses, dispersing the debris.

Estel shuddered at the memory, the spasm racking his petite and at the moment so fragile seeming form. But in spite of everything that had come to pass that day; it remained that he had never felt safer, more secure and more protected than he did in that moment. In the arms of his brother, danger seemed a laughable notion, pain a joke of irony, and death, a walk of impossibility.

"It's over," Elladan repeated in a whisper.

* * *

Elrohir aimed with perfect precision, drawing back the string of his bow, gauging the distance and allowing for sudden movement, he loosed the arrow. It sailed through the air like a dagger, deadly as treachery, striking at the wolfs very heart.

The animal fell with a howl of pain, its limbs twitching for a few moments before it became completely still. Dealt a deadly blow.

Elrohir breathed heavily from the weight of the emotions that engulfed and weighed upon him; fear, doubt, foreboding and a sense of melancholy There had been no other way, he had performed the only justifiable action for the wolfs attempt on his little brothers life, however he did not relish death – and the righteousness of it, if killing could be righteous, didn't make it any easier – Those who relished death deserved death.

Heaving a weighted sigh, Elrohir bracingly patted his stallions neck, who appeared just as downhearted, but accepting as he. The stallion gave a gentle whuff. Slowly they turned, leaving the wolf to the forests will, and set off at a gallop back to the spot where they had left Elladan to console Estel.

* * *

Once Elladan had soothed Estel somewhat, he could better assess the extent of his injuries. The welts on the underside of his palms while not serious had bled profusely.

Extracting his water skin, Elladan cleaned the cuts with the lightest of touches. Estel despite wincing and groaning a little never pulled his hands away.

When he was done, Elladan offered the remaining water to his little brother, who drunk gratefully, the cooling water extinguishing the raw fire in his throat, and bathing him in the tranquility of its nature.

It was then that Elrohir returned, leaping from his saddle as soon as his brothers came into sight; hastening to their side with a countenance of profound worry. He executed a slight nod in Elladan's direction, confirming that the deed was done. Elladan's face darkened for a moment as his brothers had, but then he returned the gesture.

Drawing level with them, Elrohir took Estel from his twins offering arms, holding him close as a bud does its seeds; protecting; caring and sake keeping.

"Are you alright?" he asked urgently, holding the small human at arms length to properly assess him, what his eyes regarded pained him like a mortal wound.

Estel nodded mutely, still too dazed to speak. Freshly laid tear tracks marked their course down his cheeks, remnants from fear and relief in quick succession. They stung the fresh scratches which adorned his cheeks, an unjust pain.

"What were you doing out here, Estel? So far away and so alone?" Elladan asked evenly, his voice lacking of the chastisement Estel had expected. Instead the neutral tone bore undertones of sadness, so complexly woven that his young mind had no comprehension of them.

Still holding Estel tight, Elrohir moved to sit next to his twin upon the hardened ground, setting the young human down on his outstretched legs.

When Estel gave no indication of answer, Elrohir prompted gently and reassuringly;

"Well?"

Swallowing hard in attempts to relieve the constriction of his throat, Estel tried to incubate the sound of his voice, it however, came out in no more than an unintelligible, hoarse whisper. He tried again, moistening his lips. Why was his fear more pronounced now when the danger had passed? Finally he managed to get out;

"I was having an adventure." His voice was weak, timid but understandable. Those words tasted sour in his mouth. It felt like the lore of rash desires; like a mouthwatering fruit that drove the senses wild with temptation and spawned compulsion, which come the initial bite is found to be as unripened as any.

Elrohir gave a small laugh, "Well you certainly had one of those, though I would wager not the one you were expecting."

Estel shook his head slightly, the hint of an uncertain smile playing nervously at the corners of his mouth; it faded however, before it gained any life.

"You should have waited for us to accompany you, Estel. You know we would have," said Elladan sadly.

"You were busy," sighed Estel, avoiding his brothers' eyes. "Ada was busy. Everyone was busy."

The twins exchanged pained, melancholy looks of realization, closing their eyes for a moment as they shared a collective, bitter sigh; shaking their heads at their own carelessness. As ashamed of it as they were, they had failed to take into account their little brothers reaction to their sudden and unnecessary departure. And it remained they felt partially responsible for what had happened, for it was certain they would have ere prevented it.

"I hadn't meant to go far," continued Estel, his eyes remaining downcast all the while. He knotted and unknotted his fingers continuously throughout in a display of unease. "Just to the edge of the woodland. Ada said not to go out of sight and I wasn't going to, but then I thought; 'what harm could a little further do?' I – I lost track. I was going to turn back, but then I found some prints and I wanted to try out my tracking skills, and, well … I'm sorry."

Estel trailed off, unable to finish, and repenting his so innocently intentioned actions which had ultimately led him into danger. His expression one of a doleful nature.

"Nay, Estel. We are sorry," apologized Elladan sincerely; waiting for his brother to life his gaze. When he did, Elladan continued:

"We should have thought about how you would feel about us leaving without due reason. We were careless. Can you forgive us?" his face was a picture of shame and pleading so honest that it was frightening.

"Of course," Estel told them, with a shock that they ever could have doubted his forgiveness.

He stood, albeit on shaking legs, and moved forward to envelop both his brothers in his embrace, they, seemingly needing reassurance at that moment far more than he did.

For a while that was how they remained, linked components who could combat the world in their unity. Estel the center point, with each of his arms around his brothers' necks and one of theirs encircling his back.

It was a silent, contemplative moment, in which each could wander in the realm of 'what if?' undaunted, for the certainty it had never came to pass. How close they had come to losing one of their number; it was terrifying even in thought, but its occurrence only ensured to make their bond stronger.

When they broke apart it was to laughter on the twins part. Too long had they filled their minds with darkened thoughts. Elrohir exclaimed with mirth;

"The situations you find yourself in, Estel." He shook his head mockingly, "anyone would think you were an attraction for danger!"

This time a smile did succeed in lighting Estel's face, bright and joyous; chasing all shadow of fear and doubt which had previously marred its childlike set. Gone was the haunted expression in his eyes that looked but never saw; the windows to his soul restored. Banished was the horror that likened his skin to freshly fallen snow, in exchange for a living vitality. His expression was so natural, so untarnished that it wrung doubts in the mind, of it ever not being so. Bliss, in concentrate, it was a smile that should never be allowed to fade.

"A simple adventure," continued Elladan mockingly, "and you succeed in discovering the nearest source of danger, with as little effort as a fallen leaf carried on the wind. Only you, Estel. You possess a rare and cursed talent."

The three lapsed into an easy silence, drawing enjoyment and contentment from one another's presence. Anything other than the here and now seemed no more than unimportant details, lost to the greater story. It was a moment of purity, tainted by no soured thought. The world raced by completely uninterested by their lack of prominence within it, trouble seeming an nonexistent, whimsical thought.

The cycle of the day pivoted to late afternoon, just bordering the advancement of evening. The transition was barely discernible however, beneath the dense canopy of the trees.

It was Estel who broke the silence first, possessing not the immense capacity of his brothers' to remain unspoken. His question further fueled by intense, burning curiosity and intrigue. In a low whisper, constricted by awe and wonder, he posed it:

"How did you know where to find me?"

The twins shared a knowing glance, before Elrohir, drawing him closer in the act of revealing a great secret, whispered back:

"Because we are you brothers. We have a sixth sense that tells us when you are in danger, and if we listen hard enough; guides us to you. It means we can keep an eye on you, protect you and watch over you. It also means that you are never alone, despite what you may think, we're always with you. Your fear is our fear, your happiness our happiness and your grief our burden to bare too. Your life is part of our life. Remember that always tithen pen."

"You have the same sixth sense, Estel," Elladan added tenderly.

"I do?" the humans eyes grew wide in surprise.

"Aye." The two elves shared a laugh. "It comes from the heart, Estel, and with one as great as yours there is no doubt that you do indeed possess it. Just, you do not yet know you have it, listen hard enough and you will discover it."

Estel smiled distantly as scenarios, like scenes on a stage played out in his mind, featuring prominently his awe inspiring and new found sense. The twins mirrored the expression distance replaced by tenderness.

"But unfortunately for us," Elrohir added as an afterthought, "Ada possesses the same sixth sense."

The three shared uncertain glances at this forgotten revelation. A light air of forbearance settled upon them, the deeds of their misadventures would come under scrutiny and judgment before the day was through.

The air grew cooler as day stretched into night, the familiar sounds of bird call all but fell silent, replaced by a low humming and the stirred rustling of many nocturnal creatures. Within the heart of the woodland, the transition was imperceptible, daylight nothing more than a distant memory to all that lived in the shadows of the trees; shrouded in eternal twilight. Seemingly, a spell of calm befell the trees so that they appeared limp, their branches hanging like the failing limbs of a person lost to slumber.

"The hour grows late," said Elladan almost reluctantly, "we should get back."

Waiting for no affirmation, he pursed his lips, parting them a little and gave an enchanting, ethereal whistle that seemed to encompass all know sound while remaining in similarity to none.

The two stallions, standing century nearby, reacted to the command approaching their masters with enthusiasm and impatient flicks of their silver tails; eager as they were to be gone from this place and running once again.

They stood like beasts of majesty waiting for their riders to mount. Creatures of untamed nature, they were steered by loyalty and friendship.

"Well, Estel, it would appear you get to ride with us after all," laughed Elrohir. Estel grinned exuberantly, but with a look of un-surprise.

With ease, Elladan wrapped an arm around Estel's waist and hoisted him onto the horses back – who bowed his height obediently for the child – setting him just before the saddle.

At the same time , Elrohir swung himself masterfully up onto his horses back in a single handed act of skill, while Elladan followed mounting in a much more careful manner; wrapping one arm around Estel and gripping the reigns in his other.

"Ready?" he asked, undertones of mischief weaving into his rich voice. Estel nodded, his face alight with delight.

The mighty beasts required no command, in unison they threw back their heads and set off at a swift canter, their ease and grace of movement which lead them to unprecedented speed bore no indication of burden.

Estel gasped, releasing a high-pitched laugh as the forest rushed by in blur of greens and browns before his very eyes. Exultation took him, stirring excitement within every fiber of his being. This was beyond living. He flew upon the earth, or so it seemed. Elladan and Elrohir released shouts of exultation beside and behind him, only adding to the intensity of the moment. His yearning heart longed for this moment not to end, but to continue evermore.

The wind blew back his hair, brushing his forehead and cheeks with bitter sweet kisses of truth, which told him his wish was impossible except in memory.

When their pace slowed a fraction, and they were free of the tangled web of woodland, Estel leaned back against his brother, secure.

Perhaps his tender age was not such a bad thing, he mused, it meant there would always be someone looking out for him, someone who he could rely on to keep him safe from dangers grasp and aid him if the answers remained elusive. Someone he could look up too in admiration and guidance. Often with the advancement of age, such a luxury was not always possible. It struck him then, to nurture it, not resent it, while he still had the chance, for when it was gone it was irredeemable.

Later that night, Lord Elrond sat at his foster sons bedside; listening to the soft and rhythmic breathing of the sleeping human and watching the even rise and fall of the small boys chest, as if each new breath was a miracle in itself.

Once he had been bathed and treated, Estel had succumbed to exhaustion; falling into deep slumber upon the elf lords lap. Like this the two had lingered for a time, unwilling to move, lost in a moment that in itself could have been lost, should the worst have come to pass. Sometime later, Lord Elrond had retired to Estel's quarters and renounced his young one to the silken waves. Here, then, he had remained until the present moment.

He sat rigidly, his mind plagued with a thousand thoughts all striving to be heard at once. In that day he had come so close to losing Estel, and for one dire moment, when his vision faded to blackness, he believed he had. As a parent and as a guardian that thought was both incomprehensible and unimaginable. The memory of it, although rendered untrue by reality, still existed to haunt him. Elves were immune to the extremities of the weather, but to this coldness of dread he was not. That day seemed to reveal in shocking clarity the extreme fragility of Estel's life.

He had not found it in his heart to chastise his youngest son, whose first words had been those pleading repentance. Neither had he found the will to sternly address his son's actions, especially those concerning Estel's involvement on the practice field. No, he was overjoyed to see them safe, and in that instant all other matters had become redundant.

He admired their cunning, however, re-concealing Estel's illegitimate weapon first before announcing their return, but he mused fondly, that they really should know better by now, he was omniscient and their attempts of concealment, while admirable were futile.

He smiled in spite of himself; it seemed Estel had an uncanny knack for getting himself into trouble, while Elladan and Elrohir nurtured an uncanny knack for being the cause of trouble. A fine set of odds.

He remained certain that their antics would age him ere the end, if such an absurdity were possible.

Whatever their quirks his love remained eternal; if life were a journey, then his sons were the slip-roads which veered off in alternating directions. While they lead you from the main path, their own journey proved often more rewarding and fruitful than the one laid out in stone.

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_Awwhhh poor Estel, in my mind he always had the knack for trouble :)_

_Thank you for reading!_

_-One Wish Magic _


	8. Sister Of Ours

**Simply a repeat of the Author's note found in Chapter One:**

_Okay so this story has had a bit of an overhaul, and though you will find none of the shots different in plot, it has suffered a spelling and gramatical revision - however, i don't pretend to be perfect and spelling is a particular weakness, so anything i have missed, do not hesitate in bringing it to my attention. I have also ommited a few lines throughout that i no longer liked, but apart from that there isn't much differnce at all, and also for the delight of anyone if it should bring some: an eighth shot has been uploaded with the writing of a ninth pending and a tenth 3/4 completed._

_However, i am now in my A2 year in collage and the workload alone is near intolerble, so updates, if any will be few and far between and no sooner than February if there are any. I apologise profously, i like the situation not, but on the plus side, hopefully it will all be worth it. Thank you for your continued support :)_

**_Notes for this Chapter:_**

_As previously mentioned elflings from my imaginings have minds which mature much quicker then their bodies, therefore it would not be unlikely for Arwen to be aware of what is going on around her, though she dosn't comprehend it. I have also written the gestation period as being 18 months for evles, simply because the are a race of immortals who who surely need more time to develop in the womb than we do, who have the avarage life expectancy of around 80 -or a similar figure-_

_This story started out as something quite differnt, still with the theme of the twins finding identification with thier sister, but after three seperate atempts i finally gave up on that plot and this was what was born instead._

_Hope you enjoy._

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Chapter Eight: Sister Of Ours

**Summary:**

_It had always been the two of them and that was how they liked it, but now the twins are faced with a daunting prospect that would surely alter all that they held dear; a sister. How could they come to love the tiny Arwen when her presence alone warped their entire family dynamic?_

* * *

A piercing scream rang out, tapering off into a low and pained moan; a continuum which crescendoed and diminuendoed in alternate.

Elrohir bowed his head until it rested cradled in his hands, as if the effort to keep it erect was too higher toll; it was a despairing and disquieted gesture. Elladan remained still, unnaturally so, poised in a statuesque alertness; his face marred with a penetrating concern, casting his eyes in a cloaked darkness.

Distance did not lessen the sound; nor did it appease their troubled minds; nor did it defend against the harsh foreboding that tinged the air around them.

On a sheer and forced precipice they now hesitated, the past a crumbled relic of an all too fond memory, the future unfamiliar and daunting; but the only option in an unelected conundrum. Change walked abroad.

_Imladris_ was gripped by mid autumn. The wind grew colder and more biting with each passing day. The sun grew weaker, helpless to the onset of winter, and with it, the days faded and the nights lengthened in predominance. Trees disregarded their green leaf garments with a pronounced carelessness, in anticipation of springs new clad which left them alterdly unaltered.

Upon this night, the usually serene halls of _Imladris _were alive with fervent talk, strained whispers, urgent anticipation and agony. A wondrous happening was afoot. Eighteen months proceeding the joyous news, which had been met by uncertainty upon the twins part, Celebrain had gone into labour and the birth of Arwen was ensuring.

Few were permitted any proximity as Elrond lovingly attended her. Present only were two maids and Glorfindel, though intermittently; for he dutifully ferried news and reassurances to the twins who waited glumly in the Hall of Fire, lost in the midst of a situation far beyond their control.

This was an hourly exchange that had ensured for the last two, and it was in wait of the third that the twins now remained; remained with a growing melancholy.

Celebrain's audible groans heightened once again, climaxing into a moan of wrenching agony unconstrained.

Elrohir grimaced notably, his cradling fingers clenched in tension creating points of unforgiving pressure. Still Elladan remained unmoving, the only defence he could muster to hold back the raw tumultuous sea of emotion that scarred the very walls of his restraint.

The Hall was predominated by a loud silence, where, unspeaking, they said so much beyond simple exchange. Though a raucous fire burned proudly in the hearth and though elves were immune to the extremities of the weather, a coldness had set into them. A coldness that spread like poison and stemmed from a far more distressing source.

"Do you think something is wrong?" Elrohir asked hoarsely in barely above a whisper, less his question turn to a confirmation. It was a question that was in the forefront of both of their minds.

They sat opposed at either end of the settle, though their positions were inclined; indirectly seeking comfort from one another.

Elladan sat with his feet perched upon the settle, knees drawn close to his chest and arms encircling them in an embrace, while Elrohir sat cross-legged facing his twin and brother, hands clasped anxiously, eyes pleading in their regard.

"I do not know, _gwador,"_ it was a strained reply, constricted with emotion, "but _ada_ will look after _narneth_, of that we can be certain." His eyes were solemn, an artwork of penetrating sadness.

Elrohir took a deep breath which lacked in ability to calm him: "I am scared," he admitted unashamedly.

"As am I," confirmed Elladan in a tone that offered comfort, a unity in their fear. "Scared of what I cannot see and what I do not know, and scared that I should gain enlightenment in either."

Fear of the unknown is the most consuming fear, in the absence of any certainty we charge it with greater and greater threat until our fear becomes of fear itself, and of which we have wholly created. The unknown leads us to question the soundness of what is known, leads us to doubt and corruption and taints trueness to falsehood and falsehood to an unjust righteousness. To unmask our secret enemy depletes fear, for knowing the face of our fear presents a less imposing depiction than what our imagination can create.

With a small _click – _as the frame and door broke embrace – that resounded harshly in the silence, Glorfindel entered.

Barely a moment passed before he was assailed by their simultaneous question;

"How is _narneth_?" Their imploring eyes never left him as he converged upon them and alighted upon the settle opposite.

"Your _narneth_ is doing very well, _tithen pens_," he told them reassuringly, and with a gentle smile added; "your concern is undue though endearing."

They exchanged despairing expressions, as of one who knew the truth though all those around spun him a lie so to spare him the agony. Like the man due to hang at dawn told by his comrades and kin that there was still hope yet, even when all hope had been long since abandoned.

" … Though you do not believe my words to be true?" Glorfindel asked slowly and evenly, trying to meet the twins gaze, which they dutifully kept trained downcast.

It was Elladan who spoke, his fingers twisting again and again into the excess fabric at his sleeve; incarcerated, liberated, incarcerated. "We cannot help but doubt them."

His voice was tight, strained against a tide of emotion that was almost too great for his will. Elrohir gave a dry sob which he quickly and unsuccessfully tried to cover with a terribly feigned cough.

Instantly Glorfindel was kneeling on the cold, stone floor between them, their unnecessary distress so evident and intense that it made his heart ache.

"Then trust _me_," he said gently and grandly, laying a hand over each of their hearts. "Trust your_ ada_, and trust that we both would never let anything happen to your _narneth.._

"Look at me," he commanded softly. They did so with fervent eyes, searching for comfort that darted just outside of reach, hardly daring to hope, though hope they desperately sought; less its deception was unmasked. "This process is completely natural, it is natures will and safe-keeping and in hindsight, a beautiful thing. I know you don't fully understand, but in that you are not alone. I also know how frightening it must be for you to sit here and listen to what cannot be seen, listen to your _narneth_ in pain. But may my strongest assurances comfort you, your concern is unwarranted.

"Nothing is wrong, and furthermore, nothing shall go amiss, your _narneth_ is well looked after. If you cannot trust my words then trust in that, trust in what your heart councils you to be true and not what your minds leads you to forsake."

With a gentle touch, he cupped his hands underneath their chins and raised their heads up proud.

Slowly they nodded, a great shadow passing from their countenances, a burdensome trouble smoothing from their brows, and in their eyes flickered a faint echo of their dispositional boldness. Their prevailing worries appeased somewhat, for Glorfindel, so sincere in manner and heartfelt in action, they could not doubt.

"There. That's better!" encouraged Glorfindel giving each of their shoulders an affectionate grip. "Now. I have brought you something," he announced mysteriously, reaching within the numerous folds of his golden robes.

The twins curious expressions fell into queasy reproach as he produced two large, freshly baked cinnamon buns wrapped in cloth and a water-skin of grape juice.

"You have eaten nothing since breakfast was served, _tithen pens_, and your _ada_ was growing worried. I had cook bake them especially. They're still warm; just the way you like them."

As delicious as they were and as alluring the rich, warm scent, the twins had no appetite for them. Their stomachs felt unsettled and incapable of digestion, not to mention treacherous. An effect of their overshadowed nerves which came now into prevalence in the absence of dominating fear.

"_Hannon le, _Glorfindel," Elrohir spoke up with a measured breath. "But we fear we could not eat them." He lay a hand over his tumultuous stomach as if to indicate his prevention. Elladan did likewise.

"Not even just a little?" The blond elf lord pleaded only half mockingly.

He knew that as soon as they ate something the queasiness would abate, and once the sticky, succulent dough touched their lips they would be lax to refuse their favourite dainty. But elflings could be notoriously stubborn and Elladan and Elrohir were of no exception, indeed they were the very incarnate of stubbornness on occasion.

"For me?" he continued, grinning, "even if it is only to relieve yourselves from my pitiful and relentless begging." Here they gave him a smile, the first he had witnessed this seemingly long night. "You shall feel better once you have sustenance inside of you, I promise."

With cautious movements they took the plentiful buns and uncertainly tore the smallest shred. The instant they had swallowed their frugal portions all discomfort died, and within them a ravenous hunger was awakened. The fragrant root suddenly developed a new potency.

Glorfindel waited until they had eaten what he deemed as sufficient. The thing with elven bread was that a little went a long way, and a generous amount, a lot further. So ere even they had ate half of their share, the found themselves comfortably full and content.

Once assured, Glorfindel arose;

"I must now return, _tithen pen's. _I shall be in your company again at the passage of an hour, if not sooner." He grinned wryly. "Just think, before the night is spent you shall have a sister!"

That thought left the twins with little comfort and a growing disquiet.

In the company of those who do not relate, problems become easier to forget or discount, though to ignore them completely would be detrimental. However, in the company of those who know us best and empathise, they seem all the more imposting, the weight of which becoming almost unbearable.

For a while proceeding the Balrog slayers departure, the halls of _Imladris_ were predominated by silence. A silence that boasted a welcome reprieve initially, but upon reflection was perhaps more unnerving

A sense of unease gained firm footholds in the stifling atmosphere with a growing animosity.

Worry is like a perpetual shackle, which to its pressing control we are held hostage. A prisoner to our own ends. Our chains drag heavily and burdensome, entwined links which in themselves birth new connections that ever weary us. Infrequently, a single link may falter or sever, but always quicker than we can react, always quicker than we can free ourselves from our oppression, another takes its place; only ensuring to strengthen our bondage.

"Do you think things will be different?" Elrohir asked timidly, speaking aloud a dreadful truth rather than asking a genuine question.

"Undoubtedly." Elladan regarded him carefully, witnessing the same stricken sense of forlorn that encapsulated he, depicted in his brothers countenance. "Are they not already?"

"Aye," Elrohir sighed. It was a melancholy and dejected sound. "I am sorry. I ask questions to which I already know the answers to, just so the prospect of them occurring does not seem quite so threatening. I ask; 'do you think things will change?' when I really mean ..." Here he stopped abruptly, though appearing to taper off, unable to find the correct words of conveyance, or else called by conscience to digress.

Elladan gave no word of aid or interruption, but watched his brother carefully. Watched for any external indication of his thoughts, though perhaps knowing himself, with an alarming clarity as to what Elrohir would refer, even before he mustered the courage to utter it.

"... When I really mean; where does that leave us?"

His brow creased with a pleading reproach, desperately he sought answer though he felt he had delivered severely ill tidings, and if he was honest, a little ashamed of himself.

"Oh!" It was an exclamation of surprised unsurprise, for so too to this perfidious track had Elladan's thoughts strayed.

With a look of deepest sympathy, he crawled across the settle and encapsulated his brother in an embrace, holding him close – Elrohir vigorously retuning proximity – as much seeking comfort as he offered it. For to them, the birth of their sister was no joyous event, rather a drastic upheaval, an unwanted alteration, and a forced renouncement of that which had been so idealistic.

"Well,"Elladan began slowly with a false assurance riding dominant in his tone, masking his own doubt. "It leaves us where we are now."

"Alone … " Elrohir whispered.

"Nay! Not alone, never alone. Lonely. Perhaps. Maybe. I do not know …

"You shall be an older brother 'Ro, and I shall be an older brother twice. We must love her as we love one another, and as we love _ada_ and _narneth. _And as she grows, we must look out for her as we would for each other, protect her as we would protect ourselves, and teach her the things that only we alone can teach and what we ourselves would want to be taught!

"Things like … How to get into the weapons house on the practice field, even though _ada_ has forbidden it! How to shoot an arrow to the mark from the back of a galloping horse! How to relieve cooks larder of sweet pastries long after she thinks we are in bed, and with as much swiftness and cunningness so as not to get caught!" Elladan's tone became one of excitement as an identical smile adorned both of their faces for a moment, in reminiscence of their past misadventures and the future prospects of thus.

"How to whittle in perfect likeness, and when to pass notes in Erastor's lessons, with a secrecy that avoids even his keen eyes!" He stopped for an appreciative moment; mischief bore the sweetest taste of success. Before his face once again fell into a sombre countenance. "It leaves us with responsibility."

"And what if … what if we do not love her?" Elrohir whispered, eyes wide and fearful, pertaining both the dire prospect and the harshness of the question that is mind dredged up.

Elladan was silent for a long while, contemplating this seemingly very real possibility and what it would mean if it came to pass. On the front of answers, he came up blank;

"That I do not know," he answered with a weighted sigh.

"What if _ada_ and _narneth_ love us less?" Elrohir chocked out, a shiver shaking through him as if he had been doused with an ewer of liquid ice. Elladan rubbed his arm in a feigning, futile act to warm him.

"That is ridiculous," he muttered with as much conviction as he could muster.

"Even though you fear the same thing? Even as it lingers in the back of your mind?" Elrohir pressed.

"Yes." It was a whispered reply, an admitted defeat.

"Yes that you still think it ridiculous? Or yes that you think and fear it?"

"Both." It was a difficult revelation. "I do not have all the answers 'Ro, and I do not pretend I do. But you and I both know that we shall always have each other, no matter what happens."

He laid a firm and bracing hand on Elrohir's shoulder. "Never doubt that, _gwador_!"

"I do not." He sighed heavily. "That thought alone gives me great strength, which otherwise I would find in short supply. But I do not know ..."

Here his tone became both great and saddened; "It is like waiting for an approaching war discernible upon the horizon. Though the black armies of orcs move quickly and devastatingly across the lands, from your vantage point, they hardly seem to advance at all. Always existing as a threat close at hand but beyond actionable strike, and you are poised perpetually in the last instant before death."

"Yes. Though the death of us it will not be." Elladan affirmed resolutely.

Waiting is a game that eventually everyone loses.

Sometimes, the things that make us gladdest can in their initial instance show us at our worst, for only once revealed in our finest faults, can we be cast in suit of our best. And those who know us best see both, the unified duality that governs us demanding action and repercussion.

Another hour came and went in the uniform manner of its predecessors. Glorfindel's presence and message were of a fleeting matter, consisting of nothing more than a hurried; "It shall not be long now!" and an encouraging grin.

The calm, though foreboding silence dissolves abruptly to renewed groans, this time more pronounced; more anticipating. Sounds that marked the brink from which there was no return.

On this occasion, however, other sounds entwined and intruded creating a sweet cacophony; musical and toneless all at once;

Bracing, yet gentle cries of encouragement and reassurance; hurried questions with even more hasty answers; persuasive commands in a loud bedside manner; orders to bring more blankets, more towels, more sheets – for tepid water in a basin; of doors opening and closing with a _bang_ and a whisper, a rising clamour of conversation in eagerness that rung in the ear like a hum.

And in the midst of all, the twins sat, feeling effectively removed; as if in a dream where each sound, though heard with striking clarity remained just outside comprehension. They felt lost and insignificant, in a vastly growing world which strayed far beyond the borders of any map.

Then all sound rose in a deafening crescendo which left in its wake a ringing silence almost as loud, until one seemingly ethereal sound rung out in dominance. A single cry. It was high in pitch and almost chocking, but was met by much exultation.

The twins stood abruptly, but then any subsequent intention of movement seemed to falter. No thought prevailed them, just an emptiness; profound consuming, disconcerting. Now was the beginning and end of something perfect.

It was a fleeting time, which in earnest felt like an age, before a euphoric Glorfindel came to escort them to their _narthet's_ bedside.

All sense of curiosity that they had ere ever possessed seemed to dissipate in that moment, usurped by a timidness that bade them recoil. There was something different in the Balrog slayers eyes, something they could not quite isolate, but would come to regard in the eyes of all who gazed upon the face of their sister, so alike to Tuthern if was thereafter said.

"By the Valar! You do look solemn on such a happy occasion!" laughed Glorfindel lightly, though his brow creased with an in-evident concern; "Though perhaps your thoughts will not be pacified by evidence other than the truth of your own eyes. Your _narneth_ is tired but well, and eagerly awaits your presence to acquaint you with your new sister!"

They walked as if in a dream; not quite a nightmare but one that was founded upon and woven with the threads of unease. Their movements seemed slow, even to themselves, possessing a strange incoordination un-befitting of their race, and even the solidarity of reality seemed infirm, a ruse designed to fool. It felt as if at any moment they would awaken from this elaborate tale to find things righted. Though, regrettably, they did not.

As they walked, Glorfindel whistled; a beautiful, haunting melody, chillingly significant and strangely befitting – unfamiliar and common all at once. To them it sounded distant, a soundtrack to someone else's lifetime on which they were only listening in and watching from afar.

Elrond waited for them in patient euphoria just before the chamber door, which stood closed at his back. From within, the just discernible rustle of movement could be heard.

As soon as his sons and chief adviser came into sight, he converged upon them. Spreading his arms wide he drew both of his sons into an embrace; one that they returned with a sort of desperate vigour, and a brief moment of understanding during which everything was laid bare, seemed to pass between them.

"Oh, _ion nin's_ ..." It was almost a wistful sigh, tinged with a pronounced sadness that was paradoxical in such concurring joy. Though in itself it implored them to see the reason they had taken leave of.

"Never," he told them with a conviction that they were unable to doubt – even if the world were to suddenly implode – delicately kissing their foreheads.

That was the first time they really saw him, saw his expression, the set of his eyes. He exuded a loving pride, the greatest attribute of mortality, even as his eyes gleamed with an endearment far beyond words and his expression was a depiction of serenity and laughter at once.

Elven hearts are dis-positioned to gladness, though few ever stired with the raw concentrate captured in the love of mortal races, which was all the more potent for its fleeting nature.

Elven hearts are guarded by dignity, with knowledge as their dominant vice. But the mortal men are ruled by emotion, uncensored and unhindered, expressed in great vivacity.

It was this unbounded nature of emotions that lead the elf lord to joyousness. The expression that adorned his ageless face was one that had only been witnessed a single time previous, on a night much like the one that was now at hand; when Elladan and Elrohir had been born.

"How is _narneth_?" Elrohir asked with a sudden urgency, for too long it felt he had gone without solid affirmation of this matter beyond word of mouth, which could in itself reassure but not absolve, though he trusted and valued _ada's_ word above all others.

"She is fine _pen vuil_. They both are," he added with a small, wry smile. "They are resting and eagerly awaiting your company."

Here he paused, watching them carefully. He understood the magnitude of the situation, and how detrimental trying to force their hand might be, or else being hateful when caution was demanded. He would ask nothing of them beyond their current capability to deal with, his own wishes were redundant in this matter.

In a truly neutral tone free of any persuasive or indicative element, which left the decision in its entirety up to them, he posed the question;

"What do you think? Would you like to see them?"

Eventually, after a meaningful exchange, they nodded; even if it was a hesitant, uncertain movement. Even if the affirmation spoke a partial lie.

The chamber was empty save for a single maid; Elena, a warm and kind-hearted woman, who bundled discarded sheets into her arms, whistling lightly and tunefully.

Elrond steered his sons with a guiding hand upon each of their shoulders, a reassuring and strengthening gesture, in the absence of which, movement would have seemed an inability. Though as it were, they entered with a mounting trepidation.

The ivory drapes surrounding Celebrain's bed were partially drawn, an obscuring veil that at first concealed her from their sights. Never had they felt such a desperate urgency and consuming hesitation as one.

Her silhouette, a black shadow upon the golden folds sat up a little straighter with awkward and hindered movements, and in a small voice she called; "_Ion nin's_? There is no need to be afraid." The sound was thin, wavering and unnerved them.

Quite suddenly and unexpectedly, their _ada's_ warming and strengthening touch left them, as Elrond hurried forward in courtesy to open the door for Elena, and they were left in an inner solitude.

That is the thing about fears, others can only accompany us to a certain optimum point, after that we are on our own; locked in a battle of wills until judgement. To be in fear is to be alone, for fear is a solitary consumption which we must conquer or else indefinably surrender too.

The mind creates things which reality does not know, and turns even the simplest tasks into arduous affairs, warping plain sight into a tangle of deceit.

With a collective inhale that stoked courages fire, they moved forwards, slowly and always as one, seeking the comfort and strength in on another that they could not find in themselves.

They stopped at the foot of the expansive bed, crisped with newly laid linen, barely disturbed.

Celebrain half sat, half slouched against the soft white pillows piled high at her back, as if sitting erect exacted too much effort, and the flowing satin sheets were tucked securely around her waist. Her face was a white pallor, though her eyes burned with an unceasing vitality and loving regard in paradox, and her long, lustrous silver hair hung limp and dim and damp around her forehead where it had been bathed in the inferno intensity. In short, she looked exhausted.

A quite shock settled in their stomachs, one that surpassed expectation, and concern laid heavily upon the planes of their foreheads as they exchanged a despairing glance. Suddenly all confirmation of their _narneth's_ health as 'fine' seemed a dire falsehood, and left them confused in its wake.

They felt as small as their sister, who was lost to view in the snow white swaddling cradled in Celebrain's arms, and could not help but blame her.

Though despite their _narneths_ disconcerting, imperfect appearance, she smiled. A true smile, unforced for the benefit of any, that could not help but appease the summit of their worries.

She watched them knowingly, gently rocking her newborn daughter in her arms with an air of serenity and inner peace unmatched by any occasion. A grand reunion after a long separation, a well earned rest after a perilous journey, the calm silence that succeeded the cacophony. Those were the only measure.

"I look a little worse for wear, huh?" she second guessed them with a gentle tone and reassuring smile. "Do not let it concern you, and do not doubt the words that have been told to you for they are truth. I am fine, and what's more, shall look better for a little rest." The she laughed, freely and beautifully, and the fair sound warmed the coldness that had predominated their hearts.

"I did not think I would see the day when you lacked in boldness, _ion nin's_!"

They had to smile, it was a good-naturedly mocking remark, for she saw with great profoundness and understanding what lay within the deepest confines of their hearts, and their usual boldness they did indeed find lacking. But more than that, her jocular words served as a reassurance in themselves far surpassing any that were employed for that such purpose. A distant reassurance that things may yet faintly echo what they had once been.

"Come," she implored delicately, patting a space upon the satin sheets at her side. "Come and keep us company. Come and meet Arwen, she shares your impatience and has waited long to see you."

With a new though diminutive shade of confidence like a short lived flame that consumed itself in its own fire, they carefully clambered up onto the extensive mattress and alighted in the indicated spot.

Celebrain carefully forced herself into an upright position, though the slow and deliberate actions seemed to cost more than they should have rightly demanded, and caused her pallid white skin to progress a few more pasty shades; casting her in a ghostly appearance.

Delicately she leaned towards them and tenderly kissed their cheeks, just as she would do when they were younger and would more readily permit it, and as she had not done for many years past. However, this night they did not begrudge it and indeed welcomed the distant echo of old.

The gesture spoke an assured affirmation: that no matter how old, capable, valiant or revered they became, they would always be her sons, her children, and for them she would always be there.

Then, carefully, she altered her holding upon the tiny elfling, swaddled in the purest white silk, and pulled back the foldings a little from the tiny girls face.

With more willing hearts, the twins gazed upon the face of their sister. The diminutive figure who had caused them so much troubling and melancholy even before she became aware of the world.

Her face was rounded and tinged with a freckled redness that bestowed upon her skin an odd looking texture. Her features were theirs in miniature, a portrait of perfection and an artful amalgamation of Celebrian's and Elrond's.

Sculpted lips hid toothless white gums, which only became apparent when, for an instant, her features scrunched and wrinkled, before smoothing once again. Small, powerless legs kicked against their bindings and tiny but perfect hands reached and grasped, falling short of any bounty. However, the most remarkable thing about the infant was her eyes; the colour of shadowed light, framed by stunted eyelashes, which looked with an alertness far beyond her tender age.

She seemed to regard them curiously, though they may have imagined it.

"This _pen vuil's _is, Arwen," Celebrian spoke softly, watching the elfling for an instant with a sense of awe that never really faded from a parents eyes. "And these, _tithen elen_, are your brothers," she fixed Elladan and Elrohir with a proud and loving smile. "You are very fortunate to have them as such."

Now that they gazed upon the inoffensive being, her presence did not seem so threatening, nor she capable of the trickery they had charged her. The monster had been unmasked, and had left them feeling a little foolish in its wake. Though to say this was the beginning of acceptance would be a dire miscalculation. Something still lingered, just beyond comprehensible thought and tinged the air with unrest; three counterparts working out of sync. Connected but not forged.

They did not feel, as they perhaps thought they should, a sudden rush of undiluted love, which they had almost been taught to expect. '_You shall love her when you see her,_' had been Glorfindel and Erestor's bracing words when having noted their distinctive lack of enthusiasm concerning the matter. And now that they saw her … Nothing. Nothing but a remote curiosity.

That revelation left their minds reeling. They knew not what that implied in general terms or what that meant for them. For many hours afterwards they sat troubling the matter which forsook slumber, but for now they tried to digest its very occurrence. A difficult effort.

Celebrain's sweet and musical voice guided them from swirling and ill natured thoughts;

"Would you like to hold her?" A gentle enquiry.

The twins shrank away minutely from the softly spoken words in a barely discernible recoil, though one that the eyes of a mother never missed.

"Nay," declined Elladan politely. "I am afraid that I would drop her, or else hold her too tightly for the fear." He shook his head as if reinforcing his un-want, a movement Elrohir mirrored fervently beside.

Celebrain gave a small laugh; "you shall be fine as long as you support her head," she tried again in persuasive reassurance, receiving only the same fervent decline.

"Maybe tomorrow?" offered Elrohir uncertainly. Even a small time bought was better than none, though a greater excess would have been preferable. He said it in appeasement, not really meaning it in truth.

"Maybe tomorrow," she agreed easily.

Elrond had given his family a wide berth up until now, aware of the forces which acted to try and unify his children in the forged bond of truest kinship, and reconcile the eldest. A process that would only be hindered by his presence, which dispersed the unseen hand. The foundations, unbeknownst were already laid, but in a single night could not be born something so faceted and profound in optimum as that in which took years to blossom.

He converged upon them now, pride still the predominant expression upon his ageless and royal countenance. A parental pride; its purest form.

Taking seat at the foot of the bed, he gathered his sons to him in a partial embrace, for which they suffered no inclination to withdraw from.

Sometimes words never say the right thing, while actions may speak with more integrity, and louder, saying in their silence what words, for all their skillty, failed to convey. A man could go on talking and talking and talking and not say a word, his ramblings falling from memory faster than a shuddering rockfall and with fall less concern. But in a singular action everything could be laid bare; love, valiance, venerability, passion, allegiance and morality. Actions, however, were undervalued and few understood their subtlety, while words could be crude.

For a while that was how they remained, talking little and infrequently, their long silences a comfortable reprieve. A family altered but somehow still the same, searching but not lost and great but not without hardship.

Eventually, Celebrian's eyes began to close as she finally submitted to slumbers guiding touch after a valiant stand-off. Her head began to drop, and then was quickly raised again whence realization struck – a process of long enduring repetition – and her hold of Arwen started to slacken.

It was at this point that Elrond gently relieved her of her hold, and took into his own arms, his tiny daughter. Then he kissed Celebrian sweetly and tenderly, although slumber had already taken her, and eased the satin cover over her shoulders, tucking it gently around her.

Drawing a chair to the foot of the bed and beside the beautifully woven wicca basket, be-gifted to they by Galadriel and Celeborn, he sat. Although he did not place Arwen within its wondrously embroidered blankets, instead he cradled her close to his chest so that she would hear and be comforted by the sound of his heartbeat.

There he sat with such loving contentment, that for a while his ageless face, both wise and sad, lost part of its world wearied hardness.

The twins unease returned with renewed vigour, all previous reassurance echoing false words and now strangled and starved of inch of truth. Even the truest words cannot reconcile doubt if the mind is still left open to it, only through identification can doubt be omitted, and only when ones self allows. Fear strikes with a double edge, making it difficult to extract without further maim.

"You should get some sleep, _ion nins_. The hour grows late, the excitement has passed, and you look wearied in its wake," Elrond spoke softly and fatherly, holding their gaze. "The morrow is another day. Do not let the troubles of the yester taint it." Were his parting words, delivered with a warming smile.

"Yes, _ada. Mara mesta"_ was their collective return. They needed not twice be bidden leave.

"_Mara mesta, ion nins._"

Outside their _narneth_ and _ada's_ chamber, the twins parted ways, although sleep was a futile effort that rendered no gain as well they both knew, and the night would see them together again before its conclude.

* * *

Perhaps an hour had passed when a quick _rap _punctuated the pressing silence; a sound of announcement more than permission, and Elrohir entered his brothers chamber.

There was no light save for the moons silvery, ethereal glow, which poured in from the west facing window; outlining a glistening silver arch in the midst of the stone floor – disrupted only by the black silhouette and shadow of his brother reclined upon the ledge. His back pressed against the frame and book in hand.

Elladan did not look up. Although his eyes were trained upon the pages before him, they did not trace the flow of the words. Reading also, he has forsaken to impossibility – a truth Elrohir could have told him a half hour previous – and now he was lost to profound thought.

The course that many sleepless nights tread in hindsight.

Elrohir moved silently towards his twin and alighted upon the sill, mirroring Elladan's seat at the opposing edge. Their unshod feet rested just short of one another's.

For a while they just sat in silence; an undemanding quiet where thoughts and feeling were unbounded. There comes a point in every matter when even talking becomes redundant; better to say nothing than to repeat with different lexis that which had already been said too numerous times previous.

At length Elrohir looked up from his brooding consideration and pleaded with burdened heart; "Say something. This silence is deafening me."

Elladan blinked slowly; he had faded into a deep unawareness and quite forgotten his twins presence. He could think of a thousand things to say upon his own merit, but now the request came, his mind was a blank.

Slowly, he let the yellow edged pages, which masqueraded almost as a faded gilt, fall closed; embraced by the thick binding cover of the great volume. He gave a small sigh-like laugh, a distant wryness lighted in his expression. "I have read close to 100 pages, but now that I try and recall them I cannot remember even the distant whispers of the words I have read."

Elrohir regarded him evenly, waiting. By '_say something_' he hadn't meant in the literal sense of anything that came to mind, but perhaps saying anything that came to mind was easier than saying what really troubled it.

Carefully, Elladan reached over and dropped the book onto the richly ornate chair which lay but a short distance away. It landed with an incubated _thud _and there sat looking unimpressive.

"You couldn't sleep either, I gather?" he asked, turning back to Elrohir.

"Nay." His expression was guarded, wary. "But it was for no disquiet, worry or malcontent that I could not. It was for a numbness that somehow made me feel less alive, more truly lonely than I had ever dared imagine." He seemed to shrink as he said this, to retreat into himself.

Close to adolescence they may have been, but that offered no prevention against them every now and again feeling like the elflings they were but fervently denied. And now was one of those occasions.

"Aye. I feel the same," confessed Elladan quietly, "for a while I lay wondering. At first, perhaps, I thought it was more preferable, but now I am certain it is not. I would rather be back in the Hall Of Fire, just to feel something. Anything."

Elrohir nodded his accord. To feel was to live, even if it felt like that pain could kill. "What have you been thinking about?"

"For the most part, _narneth._ And –" He stopped abruptly as if unwilling to go on, then he took a deep, steadying breath, "– and guilt."

"Guilt?" Elrohir questioned uncertainly, perplexed.

"Aye. Perhaps our fears were our own fault and of our own making, allied with evidence only in our own minds and not cast in solid reality.

"But I don't know, something lingers in the back of my mind, like a self spun web of deceit, where the fingers of that web press upon you so tightly that all you can think about is their strangling grasp. Everything else fades, becomes inconsequential. But eventually the pain of their hold fades too, or else you become immune, and then you open your eyes. Through the small gaps of the incarcerating structure you see beyond, something much more preferable; where every wrong you had amplified is righted. You see perhaps the truth, though struggle as you may, it appears that never can you reach it.

"Mayhap the only hindrance is ourselves." He ended with an inflection, as if he implored Elrohir's opinion and sought his confidence, as if he, even despite his own words was not wholly convinced.

"Perhaps you _are_ right," Elrohir mused, "or rather, I hope you are right. But it makes sense in a way that I can't really explain but know with conviction, and right or not I tend to agree with you."

Sooner or later, we have to stop trying to blame our insecurities on others, where we have to take up our own responsibility to face them head on. To blame others may be easier though unjustly, but only serves to accentuate the initial issue, birthing broadening pathways and slips roads on a journey with dwindling hopes of return.

In face of their own revelations of guilt, things seemed a lot clearer and a lot less imposing. Reassurances they had charged with falsehood, were now uncloaked truths, and things which had afore appeared such certain truths now seemed folly in consideration. A new dawn brought with it a new mindset, free of preconceived notions which treacherously fed the flames of doubt.

"Do you think _narneth_ is okay? I mean, _really_ okay?" Elladan asked after a lengthy silence, during which each gazed into the sky's royal blackness, mapping the stars with ease. A calming habit. A greyness was now gathering in the east, dissipating the omnipresent blackness, and interspersed with streaks of lilac and turquoise.

"Okay? I think she is better than okay!" Elrohir laughed a little. It was his job to ask the questions to which they both sought answer, and it was Elladan's job to return with perceptive answer born from evidence that they had both bore witness too but hardly dared to hope true. In this way nothing was ever left undisclosed.

Elladan did not seem to appreciate his brothers amusement at the evident role reversal, however, so Elrohir continued in a more reassuring tone;

"Though, granted, her appearance is in dispute. But 'Dan, did you not see? Did you not see how she could not stop smiling? How peaceful and serene she looked when we all sat together, _ada_ too. As if nothing in the world ever had or would compare to that moment, as if nothing else mattered, even. It made my own less than admirable thoughts falter to regard her. Trust me when I say; she is better than okay! And after some rest she shall look it too." He now smiled openly and freely, all shadows banished, and Elladan had to join in.

"Yes, _gwador. _You are right, of course." Elladan visibly relaxed.

"Of course I am right!" Elrohir returned in a tone of mock superiority that suggested he was never anything less.

Elladan bit back a laugh, shaking his head in amusement as he aim a light kick towards Elrohir's leg; which was the closest point of contact.

"Ow," Elrohir again openly mocked before dissolving into a fit of laughter, helpless to the onslaught.

They laughed until they were breathless and their sides ached from the spasms. The first real laughter they had had the heart to utter in that long night, and in the face of all prior melancholy, all the more beautiful and warming, and all the more consuming. It was a sound that would stir even the most cheerless heart again.

At length their laughter subsided, though they found themselves every now and again breathing through trailing titters; laughter in response to nothing greater than want.

"How about today we spend the day away from here, away from everything? We'll go out riding!" Elladan exclaimed unexpectedly, his face alight with a relishing desire, his eyes a longing implore. "And there set our minds straight, then we shall return light and jovial, and all that had occurred this night will pass beyond favoured recall."

"That is a marvellous idea! And one that my heart warms to immediately. Yes. Yes, let us do that!" Elrohir enthused.

With dawn hasteful in its steps of dominion, the two retired.

It was with one hand encapsulating the ornate door handle that Elrohir's steps were halted and drawn up short by a shy request muttered in a timid tone;

"Stay?"

He turned back to regard Elladan; whose expression was a forced mask to conceal his abashment, though it crumbled to ruin even as Elrohir regarded it. His fingers twisted and interlaced methodically, a physical depiction of an inner discomfort, however, his eyes remained fiercely resolute.

"Stay," he repeated a little more firmly, with a more pronounced conviction.

Elrohir nodded quietly, unwilling to reveal his own desire for proximity; though Elladan was already more than aware. Inside they smiled and were comforted.

The morning they passed in a unified slumber, arms, legs, hands entwined – as they had passed away many a night as elflings, and how they had not slept for nigh on a decade. Their rest was filled with a great tranquillity and peace of mind; a beautiful reprieve.

Young and innocent they remained, though boast they opposite. Perched on the cusp which stirred within them a divide; a far excessive wisdom partnered with childlike longing and impulses; amusing and disconcerting.

A weak sun rose, pursued by ever thickening and greying clouds away to the east, which cast a darkening reminder that winter was on its way. The suns pale light seemed to set the earth ablaze with autumn hues, striking the golden brown leaves at such an angle as to almost make the glitter. It further accentuated the rarer reds, yellows and oranges, casting them like jewels in a golden river.

The twins slept soundly and unawares until mid afternoon was upon the earth and within they awoke more refreshed than they could ever remember.

They made ready with great abandon, caring not for the mess they ensured, and lacking in efforts to rectify their tame havoc, eager to be astride and abroad. They were mindful however, of their unintended tarring, which had inadvertently delayed their departure.

The halls of _Imaladris_ rung with the laughter and song of mid-noon; light, gentle and fair, though they were devoid of soundless walkers, save for the twins.

Distant and ever-glad calls like melodic solos emanating from the grounds were ferried upon the air to within. Together and intertwined, but a small bridge in life's ever-long song.

They walked with a joyous gait, dabbling in an afternoon that was in all essence the same as its predecessors, and would have always been but for the self made shadows in their hearts.

The same sun rose upon a new and different day, as thought unaltered, as though unconcerned by the events that she watched and that they charged as pinnacle moments of alternation. Nay, she marked them as trivial.

It was folly perhaps to have expected the world in its entirety to shift and alter just because ones family dynamic did. Or perhaps it was perceived wisdom, for with that alternation ones whole world – or at least all that they had once known it as – became cloaked and re-figured before their eyes. But which charge it was remained unseen, and even the wisest are not immune to folly on occasion.

However, at the utterance of an oddly familiar sound, they drew up short, stalling their footsteps.

It came again. A sort of chocking cry that reached its optimum and tapered off all within a few seconds, preceding an almost silence that was punctuated with small, sniffling sobs.

Arwen.

Quite unrealized they had drawn to a halt right outside their _naneth _and _ada's_ chamber.

The door stood minutely, though resolutely ajar, and from within came a veiled light which cast all in an ivory hue. The sun filtered through the similarly hued curtain, which despite the prime hour, were drawn.

Slowly and cautiously, Elrohir, who stood closest to the embossed door, reached out a hand and delicately pushed it just wide enough to gain an accurate scope.

The rooms atmosphere was thick and close with the dilatory nature of sleep.

Encased in the white folds of duvet like clouds plucked from the sky of a glorious summer, Celebrain lay in a fitful slumber; consciously aware of, though not yet fully roused by her daughters small wails.

Elladan hung back, eager to set out on their already long delayed ride, and unwilling to heed further distraction which may present an opportunity for tarrying.

"Let's go!" he urged, but Elrohir made no indication of movement, lest-ways for a further moment or two.

Then, quite suddenly, muttering words that Elladan did not catch – like half designed notions lacking purpose – he strolled boldly forwards, or so he would have liked to think – though in reality his steps were noticeably hesitant – and entered the bedchamber where his_ naneth_ and sister resided unawares.

"Elrohir? What? ..." Elladan demanded and then faltered, vainly reaching out to halt his brothers course, without purchase.

He groaned in annoyance, throwing his head back. What now?

Elrohir's retreating footsteps came, slight in sound though laboured as if he bore a sudden weight. Then he emerged, baring in his arms the beautifully crafted wicca basket, released from its standard and harbouring the tiny Arwen.

"Nay, Elrohir! What are you doing? Put her back! Your wisdom has turned to madness!" Elladan rushed out, an unpermitted panic churning tumultuously in the pit of his stomach.

But Elrohir paid him no heed, muttering something indecipherable he took off at a brisk walk that Elladan was forced to follow, again questioning the soundness and motives behind his brothers actions, though without need.

"_Naneth_ needs to rest in order to cover, and she cannot rest if Arwen insists on crying continually." He finally elaborated, casting the small elfling an accusing glance, to which she only gurgled. Her pitiful crying having ceased the moment Elrohir had taken hold of her.

It made sense, Elladan thought belatedly, though that now left them with the trouble of what they were going to do with her. They could leave her outside _ada's _study, where work was troubling at best and he surely would be glad for a reprieve. But nay, something seemed amiss; their well intentioned actions would almost certainly be interpreted as ones of ill nature, a thought they had never possessed.

They could take her to Glorfindel or Elena, either would indeed be pleased to watch her; but again something did not seem quite right. Instead of accepting the truth as it was, the twins knew they were more likely to look upon them with a kindly, sympathetic expression as if they knew something that the twins themselves were in denial of.

Nay, whatever they did would have to be of their own accord and executed by them alone.

Elrohir walked with a purposeful gait, suggestive of an ideas conclude within the mind. In that moment, he was the bolder of the two, the pillar of strength that supported them both, the one who took control when situations became chaotic. He sought no answers and asked no questions, for he saw everything with a sudden clarity. In that moment Elladan admired him and knew with alarming certainty that once identification and acceptance came, 'Ro for all his novice, would make a brilliant older brother.

They retraced their steps back towards Elrohir's chamber – faded but well worn imprints, hidden to the eye – which was the only out of the two which had not fallen prey to their dishevelment.

Entering swiftly, Elohir placed the basket upon his bed. Elladan stood at the doorway, watching. It was as good as idea as any, and far better than some.

With a last glance at his sister, Elrohir turned and made towards the door. "She'll be perfectly safe here," he affirmed, "and _naneth_ may rest in peace, and we may go on our ride without worry." It was brilliant.

Before he had gone five steps, however, Arwen uttered forth a wrenching cry. This time the single syllable did not falter, her cry now was no faux imitation, but real and distressed. A repetitive wail through chocking gasps, like the sound of waves lashing against rock in a tempestuous storm.

The twins covered their ears desperately, the sound piercingly loud, and exchanged despairing glances. They could not now leave her in such anguish, though they wished not to stay and knew not what to do.

Quickly Elladan entered the chamber and closed to door behind him, lest the din roused half of _Imladris_ to their side, including _naneth_.

It was an amusing sight to behold upon reflection. The twins stood with the door pressed hard against their backs wearing stricken and panicked expressions, as though not daring to advance another step closer to the wailing infant, for fear she may suddenly combusted. Which at that moment seemed not at all unlikely.

With a small though forceful movement, Elladan pushed Elrohir forwards; he was uncharacteristically startled.

"Do something!" Elladan implored urgently.

"Me?" Elrohir returned wide-eyed. "What can I do?" He looked inappreciatively at Elladan's outstretched hand which threatened to give him another forceful urge forwards should he falter or try to retreat.

"This was your idea!" Elladan reminded him sternly, in that moment appearing so exactly like _ada_ in tone and manner that Elrohir was slightly taken aback. All throughout the wailing did not diminish nor relent.

"Oh how I repent!" he groaned.

Turning towards his sister, who's cries seemed to have redoubled as screams, he swallowed hard and drew in a few deep breaths, which failed in their purpose to calm him.

He took one cautious step and followed it with another, his movements almost regretful and certainly hesitant.

"How hard can it be?"he wondered aloud, trying to build a sense of courage that he did not possess. "I mean, we look after _Hwiin_ and _Halii _well enough. Why should Arwen be any different?"

"I rather think there are a few subtle differences between looking after a horse and looking after an infant!" shouted Elladan with an uneasy laughter that was almost drowned out.

"For all our sakes, I hope they are but subtle differences," he returned dryly.

Ten fleeting steps separated him from his sister, though he would have wished for five times that, and too readily he came to stand at her side.

Her small face was scrunched and lined, marred with distress and steadily reddening to a brilliant hue. Her small hands were clenched into fists and her feet kicked out angrily.

Suddenly, a sense of deepest sympathy was evoked within him. Her cries were no more a painful din, but a sound that spurred him to compassion. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close. Tell her that everything was okay and that he was there; that he would always be there.

His hands shook with the thought, and their own lack of experience. Inwardly he cursed himself for not holding her when _naneth_ had offered. Desperately, he turned back to Elladan, who still covered his ears and looked warily upon the basket.

"How did _nanth _say hold her? He shouted above her cries.

Slowly and a little fearfully, he reach forward a finger and ran it down the length of her cheek in efforts to calm her. How soft her skin was! Like sun warmed silk.

He cries dwindled for a minute and then redoubled as soon as his touch left her.

"She just said to support the head … What did you do?"

Elrohir waved his brothers question aside and motioned him forwards. Turning back to his sister, he gently slipped a hand under her back, manoeuvring his arm so that her head rested in the crook of his elbow. All previous hesitation banished. Then he slipped a hand underneath her legs and lifted.

She was warm in his arms, like an earthbound sun, and a sudden amazement seized him. He held in his arms a tiny being! His sister! He was overwhelmed.

Almost immediately her cries began to taper off, replaced by small hiccuping sobs.

"There now. You're alright,." he soothed tenderly, speaking in just above a whisper. "We are here, _tithen pen,_ everything is okay." He spoke in plural for at that moment Elladan came to stand at his side, regarding Arwen with a new wonder, as if this was the first time he had ever really seen her. As if everything before had been someone else's tale with ill fitting illustration.

Elrohir took the opportunity himself to regard her, really regard her. As when one looks without care, he sees nothing, he could pass by the same person each day and remember not that he had ever seen them. Now he looked deeply.

She was beautiful and fair even in such early infantile days, but to they whatever she had looked like would have seemed like beauty to their behold. She did indeed have their eyes as Celebrain had noted; their same colouring and set, and perhaps one day, the same light of mischief. Her hair too was dark in similarity, though it seemed to have an indistinct and barely discernible wave to it that theirs had never possessed.

She lay placidly in Elrohir's arms, gurgling and cooing contentedly, gazing up at their faces with intelligent and alert eyes.

That's when he felt it! … a rush of purest, unbounded and untainted love. It flooded his every sense; warmed him and chilled him as one like fire encapsulated in ice.

For her he would do anything; swim the sea is she wished it, face the darkest dangers of the deep world or fight the most futile war within which hope had long been renounced, just to keep her safe, and travel to the ends of the earth and back again, just to ensure her happiness, just to hold her close and tell her that they loved her. There was no length that he could not or would not go for her.

It felt almost surreal to hold her in his arms, to feel her small movements, to gaze upon her and know that she was real. She had her whole lifetime ahead of her, a lifetime in which they would undoubtedly play a prominent role. To watch her grow, learn, play, to make mistakes, get into trouble, share in merriment, laugh in the joyous times and cry in the sombre, to love, want and triumph. And through it all, they would be at her side.

He looked up at Elladan and knew that he felt the same, his expression a loving serenity. They both shared a smile, an awing gesture full of truth. This was their family now, the way it had always been intended to be. Not changed, nay, the old traditions they had valued and lamented would endure unaltered, but bettered. Improved in an way that they had never before envisioned lacking.

Suddenly, responsibility did not seem such a dire burden to bare, rather something to be cherished, for with responsibility came knowledge.

Elrohir's eyes stung with tears of joy, his restraint useless against the onslaught. Elladan's eyes glistened perfidiously also, but he valiantly allowed no tears to fall.

"May I?" He all but whispered, holding out his arms.

"Of course!" Elrohir laughed, moving forwards to gently place Arwen in his twins arms. He then vigorously proceeded to wipe his eyes.

Arwen's cooing, which had almost became silent in Elrohir's arms redoubled now in greeting.

Elladan laughed, half chocking on a sob as now the joyous tears fell thick and fast and without care.

"_Mara aure_," he cooed back, smiling. Then to Elrohir; "just imagine how proud _naneth_ and _ada_ would be if they could see us now! What were we ever afraid of?" He laughed openly and freely for immeasurable joy had gripped his heart.

"I do not know. Very foolish we have made ourselves appear and without cause!" He shook his head at his own folly, as it was now revealed in full, glorious falsehood.

"Perhaps you will laugh when we you hear this story, _tithen pen_," said Elladan softly, tenderly kissing Arwen's brow.

"Or perhaps you shall have some of your own far better to tell. You are after all a Peredhil" Elrohir grinned standing beside his brother and placing a hand upon his shoulder. Three counterparts forged as one.

The truth we can doubt, but our own hearts will never lead us astray. However, the ability to listen is a skill we all find lacking; we speak when we should hear, and on occasion when we take the trouble, hear only what we want to. To listen to the heart is harder still, and oft its words are masked by false emotions birthed from doubt, which we heed all too easily. But in the end, everything fades, and the heart endures; finally we are bidden: listen. Listen to the words we long ago disregarded …

It was thus that Celebrain and Elrond found their three children, though knew they already what had occurred, and their hearts indeed did stir with pride to behold the endearing sight.

Elladan and Elrohir lay propped against the beautifully carved headboard – a work of their own hands – knees brought up close to their chests. In Elladan's arms, cradled close to his heart, lay Awen, and in her tiny hand was grasped firmly, Elrohir's index finger. All were soundly asleep and unified in their slumber.

This marked the start of life's next chapter, one which promised to be greater than the former.

It was with gladdened hearts that Celebrain and Elrond took up vigil over their sons and daughter, and when all three woke simultaneously greeted them with great warmth. For now was the beginning of forever.

* * *

_Translations:_

_Pen vuil's - Dear one's  
Tithen elen - _Little Star  
_Mara mesta_ - Goodbye (I wanted 'goodnight' but could not find it)

* * *

_Interestingly, someone else made the comparison of looking after an infant to look after a horse directly to me, which i found to great amusement since the idea was alreadly lodged in my mind :')_

_Well I'm afriad that's it for a while, but fear not, there are other chapters in pending. _

_Hopefully i have brought you some enjoyment and happiness throughout._

_Opinions always appreciated, words greatly recieved _

_Thank you for reading!_

_-One Wish Magic._


	9. Friends, Foe's and Foolish Endeavours

**Notes For This Chapter:**

_This chapter is completely Legolas-centirc, and focuses upon his experiences within the relm of Mirkwood._

I don't have anything near the skill of Tolkien for coining elvish names, apologies. But for the names mentioned here after, the pronunciations are:  
Breia - Bree - a  
Tieme - Tie - eem  
Xanthus- Zan -th - us

Disclaimer: I do not own anything but my own enjoyment.

Hope you enjoy.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Friends, Foe's and Foolish Endeavours

**Summary:**

_Growing up is hard, growing up a prince is harder as Legolas soon discovers, especially when there are those who seek to use such a distinction for ridicule. Embarking upon a challenge to prove himself, Legolas learns the value of valour and understanding, and that testing situations can yield surprising results. Maturity is a minefield with a blank map for guidance._

* * *

"Step! … Lunge! … Parry! … Strike!" The shouts were jovial despite their nature, delivered with an air of innocent authority, though their sound was hollow, echoing and yet smothered in the dense, volatile Greenwood forest.

In a small clearing, due eastward of the forests heart, where sun and earth were permitted the sparing pleasure of companionship, two elflings sparred with crafted staves.

Breia lunged forwards, her honeyed gold tresses flailing wildly about her pretty face. She held her sword arm firm but fluid as instructed, with enough strength to deliver a smart stroke, and enough elasticity to absorb the impact. Precision, poise and diligence spanned from the tip of her fingers to the carved implements point.

She made to strike diagonally, bringing her stave down overhead, but alternated at the last moment; veering into a horizontal course, a feigned attack that was sure to rile any unsuspecting adversary.

Legolas blocked it easily, almost lazily, a dull _thunk_ resounding as wood made contact with wood, and an expression of restrained pride adorning his countenance as he exulted:

"Good! Really good!" Blushing slightly as she smiled, heartened by the perfect execution of a less than conventional attack.

Her eyes were direct windows to her soul, Legolas saw each intention alight there an instant before being executed, which permitted him forewarning, but that would be of little matter come facing foe or fiend alike, they would not know her well enough to read her.

"Not so bad yourself," she returned with emphatic modesty.

A lesser stock of import was placed upon the necessity of female elflings learning the practice of swordsmanship, despite the perfidious nature of their homeland, an unspoken tradition habitually unchallenged. They were the jewels of their people, fairer than any other to walk upon the earth; more beautiful than the deepest fathoms of beauty, which were rendered crude in comparison, more ethereal than spirits, more illustrious than stars.

But Breia was different. She shot targets with the rest of the elflings, while her feminine counterparts looked on disparagingly, she rose to the threat of challenge when perhaps others would quail and retreat and she demonstrated a fierce and fervent disregard for the imposition of danger. Breia was one of a kind. She was unrestrained.

In the scope of those who Legolas named as fellows, Breia was the closest, and in light of this friendship they had reached an accord; he would impart upon her any and all knowledge of the handle of a blade. So now, each afternoon, lessons concluded and the weather permitting, found them sparring in the homely clearing.

They knew as well as any the dangers of their homeland, their _ada's_ and _narneth's_ stern warnings not to stray too far from the beaten track ringing significantly within their minds at the inception of each expedition. Had heard tell of unsettling tales of arachnids; black as night and tall as men, who bore a potent and temporarily incapacitating poison and who spun webs with chords as thick as rope. Felt, even in their inexperience, the brooding threat of a hitherto unaccounted shadow.

Mirkwood was treacherous, a huge, foreboding expanse full of secret, of plaintive memory, aged from the inside out. The trees grew tangled, twisted and matted in resounding circles from its heart; Oak, Beech, Ash; strangled with Ivy, hung with lichen and adorned by black shadowed leaves which effectively revoked the suns advances. The very air seemed thick and brooding, encumbered by oppressing silence, and the trees themselves to listen, resolute in their sentry lines. The forest floor was littered with the leaves of Autumn's unaccountable, their scent acrid in the damp. All was predominated by the hues of greens and browns. It was treacherous, but it was home.

"Again," Legolas instructed, rotating the stave easily and fluidly between his fingers; feeling it as if it was a further extension of his own appendage. He waited for Breia to resume he starting stance, stave vertical along the edge, a hairsbreadth away from her face, poised to defer an attack mounted from any angle.

"This time, try to block _me_. Remember what I told you?" She nodded curtly, not daring to break focus.

Legolas sank into his own offensive stance with all the grace and command of the mastered.

"Don't think, just feel," he added as an afterthought, as his own mentor had once imparted to him.

"Ready?" Another fractionate incline of accord.

He drew in a centring breath, shifting his position slightly aside out of the glare of the mid-afternoon sun – Breia mirroring his movements to the left – and called upon the irresolute force of instinct. A reserved competitiveness disposed each to great zealousness.

Then, he stepped, feigned a left-ways assault, drew up short, feigned a right-ways assault and again drew up short (each time Breia's stave would brush against his defensively before it was retracted). Legolas orchestrated it so that she always had ample opportunity to fend him off, but without rendering the venture unduly easy by under-compensating.

He threw his weight into a forward lunge which sent her stumbling delicately, but which she blocked uncompromisingly, evoking another satisfying _thwack!_

"Excellent!" he applauded, and she smiled in spite of herself.

Breia was ready for him now, her reactions attuned to his every action; the battle of twain minds, a war of wills. Their session became more active as they circled each other, predator and prey by askew and differing accounts, seeking advantage.

They accounted for each other in action and movement as if in the throes of a rival dance, thrusting, lunging, twisting and parrying. Eyes blind to the worldly surround, ears deaf to life.

Even as he assailed, he appraised. Evaluated her stance, the orchestration of her movement and its nature, how swiftly she reacted, and in observing it, he was beset by a sense of pride. Reluctant mentor though he remained, his shortcomings seemed not to hinder her advancement.

His only critique was one that practice would usurp; she based each of her defensive measures solely upon the nature of _his_ offensive. The true aim of defence was not to defer an enemies assail, it was to prevent opportunity for them to strike in the fist instance, to reproof their very intentions before they became actions. It was a frail but prodigal distinction, and one which left all aspiring swordsmen initially nonplussed until age and experience granted them clarity.

As it was, Breia gravitated toward the right where her strike was sharper and more fortified, inadvertently leaving her left side partially unguarded and herself at a deficit. It appeared habitual, for three times prior Legolas had taken account of it and failed to strike, both out of courtesy and a desire for her to recognise her own misjudgements. But realize it she did not, so he aimed to bestow awareness.

With a measured languidness and stall in his still circling step, he angled his stave – hers reacting in opposition. He called her bluff, advancing and then retreating, all the while watching her keen and suspicious gaze, how her sculpted lips twisted in grim determination. Her concentration was unwavering.

Resolutely, he brought his stave round in a graceful arch, maintaining speed, course and target, forcing her to cover her left side.

Her repelling stroke exceeded the necessity of force required, the reverberations running through the tools fibres. An expression of annoyance alighted upon her features for an instant, but then diminished to a residual exasperation.

Legolas grinned wryly, fighting back endearing laughter at her prominent self-sufficient tendencies. He turned to face her stung assail only to be arrested by a call of halt;

"Daro! Legolas ..." She spoke his name like a complaint and converged purposely upon him, exasperation enduring.

"You are being overly deferential, _again_. How am I to learn good swordsmanship if I receive no rebuking for my errors?"

"Good swordsmanship is not recognised solely on a lack of error, even the greatest warriors are not impervious to mistake; nor progression marked by the brands of retribution," he attempted to pacify, a re-deliverance of words once bestowed upon him. For all their truth they sounded but poor impartation from his lips, lacking all the reverence they deserved.

She gazed at his disbelievingly, even mildly indignantly. He laughed aloud, that had been his own initial reaction also, but he was wiser now, experience had taught him not to reproof the insight. How unorthodox that he should encompass the incompatible roles of student and mentor concurrently, how he relived reaction through two sets of eyes and two sets of minds.

"Don't misunderstand me," he countered calmly, "those attributes are important also, they are the outward reflection of skill and mastery. But more importantly is the ability to recognise the merits, or lack, thereof, of every move you make. Your triumphs, your erring's, your shortcomings. To regard the personal with an impersonal perspective, that is the real secret. But I concede, we shall do it your way."

He dipped his head modestly, taken aback by his own sudden verboseness when most predominantly he felt vulnerability.

She shook her head amusedly, all exasperation banished, before mocking good naturedly; "You are becoming irritatingly profound in your equating years.

He justified her jocular remark no return, instead, grinning in wry animation as he moved to retrieve the water-skin which hung looped upon one of the knarled and calloused branches of a near-by, reedy oak. He took a grateful gulp before proffering the remainder to Breia.

The sun boasted prevalence in a cloudless sky, imperceptibly weaker now in light and heat than it has been at its midday epitome, but no less brash. It's penetrating rays seemed to leech all shadows from the volatile environment, bestowing a more virtuous depiction.

The summers air was a warm caress, beset by the scent of prolific blossom, and all around a sense of tranquillity seemed to settle indiscriminately.

The forest seemed to hum with the murmur of life; the whisper of water, the groaning's of shifting bark in the winds breath, the airy laughter of restless leaves, the calls and contests of illiterate languages bespoken by creatures abound – a natural symphony.

But even in this goodly expanse, there walked those with ill intention near at hand. Both embodied the dissatisfaction of early adolescence, coupled with reckless disregard; a potent mixture for mischief.

They watched their inferiors from a distance, shadows against the backdrop of nature, and schemed with the unfounded constitute of discrimination attributed to immaturity.

Breia was pensive; "My left side was unguarded …?" she mused aloud, as persevering as ever, "on more occasion then when you then failed to strike …?" Now that she considered it, her shortcomings appeared embarrassingly evident.

Legolas – gazing pensively into the uncompromising depth of his homelands tactile, grey trunk constitute – smiled abashed, "Yes. It is natural tendency, we favour the side which is strongest and subconsciously incline towards it, unwittingly and unwillingly leaving the other vulnerable, just as one generally favours a hand with which to write. For the moment, do not be too concerned about it," he reassured her, taking to hand both discarded staves and twirling them circularly between dexterous fingers, before loosing Breia's in a graceful arch and watching admiringly as deft fingers firmly purchased. "Make a conscious effort to appraise your stance, and sooner or later, it will become second nature."

They resumed their positions in the centre of the clearing, anticipation animating their movements, excitement emanating from their expressions.

"No practice. We both assail and defend. Ready?"

In that intermittent moment which separated inactivity from action, he seemed to become aware of ever fibre of his being; as if he were no longer just body and mind, two differential counterparts, but one momentous construct of process, entwine and essence. Each sustaining pulsation of his heart embraced a more emphatic significance; he felt its measure and reserve as it prepared for the onslaught. A vague tingling seemed to set into his muscles as they honed their strength, accentuating their mass and density, as alive as he was.

Eyes which saw all looked deeper, ears which prevailed were be-gifted new scope. Thoughts which were blind to the constitute of living suffered clarity beyond comprehension baring witness to each seconds milestone in the persistence of living.

"Don't hold back," she grinned in challenge.

The finer details of their method were lost to a blur of movement as they danced in the orchestration of interchange and aptitude. A reflected partnership of action and reaction.

Legolas swept low, an unorthodox method in effort to steal Breia's feet from beneath her. She second guessed his intentions an instant before execution, however – having several times previous fallen prey to that particular tactic, and acting wholly on instinct, times only permittance, jumped the arc of the sweeping stave as one would jump rope.

She returned almost instantaneously with a fierce stroke of her own, its course seeking target a little higher. Legolas was forced to duck as the carved bough whistled through the air, bent on a collision course with his head. The air rippled in the wake of the implements momentum only a hairsbreadth separating it from its target.

As happens to even the most reserved in the heat of battle; acting on instinct can forego the benefit of wisdom and forsake the attribute of appraisal. Consumed by the heat and thrill of battle wise men could be made fools of reality. Adversaries could be made of friends without the want of discord, inferiors could be shown as equals and superiors decidedly less than so. Instinct knew not the intelligence of wit, but wit practised not the self preservation of instinct.

As they sparred, both elflings felt a strange sensation befall them, a seemingly emphatic phenomenon. No longer were they eager children at practise, they were great swordsmen; feared and revered by foes and friends alike. In that moment, heeded by none but themselves, they shed the cast of novices.

Their wooden implements beat a melodious tattoo as strike after strike was blocked or deflected upon either side. Some, however infrequently, found their targets and though the staves carried little danger of injury; a smart rap from one stung considerably.

With unwavering intent, Legolas backed her towards the knotted tangle of malicious undergrowth which possessed the shadows of the clearing, forcing her to draw upon the deepest reserves of strength, cunning and tenacity.

She obliged with gusto, but he possessed an advantage both in height and force, which imperceptibly unbalanced the playing fields.

She attempted to side-step him, thereby exchanging her precarious position for one more secure and favourable, the tone of their match having long since reached fever-pitch.

He was ready for her, however, and employed her own move against her, so that, though they rotated, their relative positions were never altered. They just circled once.

He raised his stave in one fell swoop forcing her either to back up and defend herself, or else duck. Unfortunately, she did neither, for at that moment a wild screech permeated the air which succeeded in an uprising within the forest so that a flock of crows took flight near at hand, cawing in noisome voices and painting black-winged shadows against the sky.

"Ouch!" It was a shout more in surprise than in hurt.

Both elflings had turned as one to try and locate the source of the commotion, startled abruptly out of their reverie and mindset of their battle, but just as Breia had failed to take defensive measures, Legolas had failed to arrest the course of his strike so that it had propelled uninterrupted unto a target that it should never have found.

"Sorry! Are you okay?" He was distraught. Breia stood bowed, her hands cradling the left side of her face, her honeyed-gold hair excluding any further assessment. He threw down his stave as if it were guilty of some reprehensible act and converged upon her.

"Are you okay?" He repeated his question a little more fervently this time, gently removing her hand's protective barrier.

"I'm fine, it was nothing more than the shock," she attempted to placate, brushing aside his concern. Now there was the fighting spirit he knew so well! But Legolas remained adamant.

"With all due respect, allow me to be the judge of that." It was no implore or command, nay, it was a gentle request, but she found herself obliging it as if it were an order and she didn't know why.

His soft hands took her face into a delicate cradle, one tucked under her chin, tilting her head upwards and to the side with such careful and tender movements that it made her stomach quiver. The other brushing her straying locks aside, all the better to peruse her face.

His strike had caught her high cheekbone, thankfully amounting no further damage beyond a small graze within a circumference of mottled redness. The first indications of bruising were present in the way of an unnatural blue cast which adorned the immediate area. It could have been worse, he thought with relief, though undeniably, it had to have hurt.

"I think you'll live," he delivered his prognosis with a laugh, but quickly became sober again, "I really am sorry."

"Do not concern yourself with it," she negated the necessity of his apology. "I am glad _you_ think so."

At one moment they were both laughing, and then in the next, in the absence of warning or indication, Breia's lips were pressed against his own, surprisingly soft, surprisingly sculpted, and he didn't know how it had happened or why it was happening. He felt his heart pick up an erratic tempo as an unpermissed fire; white hot, coursed throughout his body, making him more aware and less attuned to every thought, feeling and desire. A strange, weightless disorientation besieged him, almost making him dizzy in its keenness. The world seemed to oscillate and for a moment he had no perception of up or down or right or left or real or imaginary. A thousand emotions flooded through him, leaving him drowning in their entirety, although each in their own right were too quick and too indistinct for him to even register their passing.

He did not know what to do, or what he was _supposed_ to do, for after all there seemed a degree of skill to this pursuit of which he was still yet ignorant. Did he pull away and repel her or else pull her closer? Both options deafened him in their screaming, but before he could perform either course, the kiss terminated as suddenly and as unexpectedly as it had initiated.

Then, in-keeping with the sentiments of general confusion which predominated this exchange, his feet were suddenly swept from beneath him and the forest rocked and swivelled violently, until he lay spread eagled upon his back blinking up dazedly at the sky. Surprise having usurped any opportunity to break his fall. Staring up humbly at the blue beyond, he understood.

It was a few moments before Breia's smug and triumphant countenance, more wayward for its expression, entered into his field of vision. Standing over him, her tone exultant, she announced; "Now we are even!"

Had they been older and wiser a palpable discomfort in the form of shifting feet, averted gazes and prevalent blushes would have certainly resulted from the act which so impertinently conquered the line that separated the realm of friendship from a deeper affection. As it were, however, the further the kiss receded into memory, marked out solely as a divertive ploy, with no more feeling, the further it moved away from any effect or emphasis in their minds. The action which spoke volumes, as of yet, mute to them.

She proffered her hand and Legolas took it, allowing himself to be pulled back unto his feet, thinking all the while that he had effectively paved the way to his own fall from grace by being a little too overzealous and liberal in his use of that particular tactic towards her. He dipped his head in quiet abashment and commended; "Cunning. Very cunning."

"_Hannon le_," she grinned, "I've waited to long to be able to do that." Laughing openly, she recounted all the times her pride had taken such a similar hit, until she acquired aptitude and ability enough to defer it, and now even deliver upon its most adept performer, the signature strike, underhand tactics or no.

He held her in the same proud regard as a master would his prodigious apprentices, though all the while feeling fraudulent and foolish even as he sought to praise her efforts. This accord was nothing more than one novice imparting upon the other, what he had learned, and second hand wisdom suffered dilution. He had faults, like all who took up school in the noble craft and he periodically feared that he did nothing more than mar her education with such shortcomings. This was a position unlooked for, but one which the bonds of duty and companionship presided. He regarded it with equal parts honour and resistance.

"An excellent session! You are improving all the time, your focus is exemplary and your passion and determination surpassing even that. Your stance grows ever more fortified and your strike greater in strength and precision each time we spar." He paused for a moment, considering, meanwhile, her ocean blue eyes lit like beacons in the night at his words. "Though, I would urge you to relax a little more, at times you were rigid; tense, which may effect the quality of your stroke. Feel the sword as if it were an extension of your own appendage, never doubt its position there. As long as you have confidence and faith in yourself and your ability, neither will fail you … but wouldn't you prefer -"

"I like _you_ teaching me." It was comical how quickly her expression transpired from pride to exasperation in a single fall; her tone indicative of worn conversation.

The two elflings, akin in age, resolute in their respective contentions and fierce in feelings of camaraderie far surpassing this continued debate, stared at each other for a long moment locked in a battle of wills.

Then, noting the advancing shadows of late afternoon, which strived to consume the free east, Legolas spoke; "We should return, the evenings breads will already be cooling upon the tables." That was as far as their discord progressed, for both knew, irrespective of doubt and resistance, that the same hour would find them in the clearing again on the morrow.

Gathering together their possessions, they departed from the sun-lit clearing, which existed like a respite in the wilderness, their own unspoiled plot in a tarnished world, nestled in the crook of this vast, predominant expanse.

Unbeknownst to them, however, their footsteps were dogged. Away in the shadowy west, two figures stirred and, absconding from their places of hiding, pursued Legolas and Breia, who would find themselves cruelly waylaid ere they ever reached the sanctuary of their forefathers.

In an easy silence, the two elflings navigated their habitual course through the mutable grey trunks, each august giant as distinct and familiar to them as age-old friends. They knew their histories, their triumphs, their sorrows and their desires.

Once the trees had been joyous. They had delighted in the suns warming caress and sleeping kiss upon their leaves, welcomed the symphony of the songbirds resting in their boughs, relished the warm embrace of the soft earth that enveloped their roots; so pure and fertile that drop but a seed and an orchard would grow. But no longer. Now they were given over body and soul to despondency and distrust.

They treated all who walked among them; elf or beast with indiscriminate suspicion, a prolific and hostile force, poised on the brink of war. Little did they now even recognise the touch of the wood elves who so cared for them and mourned for their plight.

Their unease was tangible to the elflings, and though its fervency polluted the guarded atmosphere, habit and custom left them unaffected and unshaken, for they barely remembered them otherwise. They felt how the air grew close and cloying around them in comparison to the open space of the clearing, where it was crisp and fresh, and observed how the impenetrable canopy leached all sentiment of light and warmth from the earth below, resigning any new life two swift and uncompromising death and hardy growth, which thrived in adverse conditions to a long, slow starvation. A loud silence predominated all, full of meaning.

With a curious introspection Legolas considered his companion, whose light and airy paces matched step beside his own purposeful and deliberate ones. Sometimes, within the vast, uninterrupted confines of this landscape it was easy to forget that the rest of the world existed, that life panned out at an exaggerated pace beyond its borders, years transpiring into centuries and centuries transpiring into millennias, each embellished by their own comings and goings, whose urgency was lost to the enduring and stoic elven race.

Easy to forgo the trials and tribulations of men who fought even against their own kin for honour, land and other paled triumphs, spurred by the seat of emotions which often-times ruled wisdom. Easy to discount the dealings of the dwarves who concealed themselves within their mountains and piece by piece, deprived the imbued earth of all its precious minerals to satisfy their own greed and lustre. Easy to diminish the devilry of the orcs who knew only violence, malice and destruction, and in their monstrous swells, converged like a plague, scarring every land where their unwholesome feet bore and delivered them. All of this could be forgotten. Even time lost its meaning to those who were immortal.

An elf may go seven lives of men without once venturing beyond its sanctuary. Many had. While others were wanderers by nature, frequenting the wilds and exposed kingdoms of men, returning periodically with tidings ill and eccentric when their heart, heavy with longing, finally called them home.

Legolas, upon a score of occasions had rode out as part of his_ ada's_ entourage in convergence to _Imladris_ when council or meeting was sought. He had seen the Misty Mountains in their shrouded and imposing glory, silent spectators to the sport of living, conquered the rolling planes where the sky met the earth upon a golden horizon, met with the sons of Elrond; Elladan and Elrohir, wherein succeeded fierce fellowship and insight, and returned home much grown in body and mind, to the lands he equally loved and lamented.

But Breia, she had never left, never even ventured so far as the Old Forest Road. Absently, he wondered whether she longed for the adventure or whether she was content to remain in the surrounds she knew so well. There were limits to everyone's daring after all and entering the unknown was the most perfidious gamble of all. Perhaps it didn't matter to her either way. Perhaps she had never even thought about it.

"You're looking particularly pensive …" she noted suggestively, her head angled fractionally to the left so that her golden tresses partially obscured her countenance. "What are you thinking about?"

Whether he had ever intended to impress the matter or else defer it, his answer was lost nonetheless to one such random and cataclysmic event, which so predominately rule the life of all.

Through the green hued filter and shadows of the trees alighted two figures calling boisterously and authoritatively for the elflings to halt. Both in stature, were at least a foot surpassing Legolas – easily the tallest in the companionship – and advanced from opposing directions until, standing shoulder to shoulder the constituted an impenetrable barrier barring the elflings from their destination with unreadable expressions.

While supporting the fair and intuitive eyes of their race, though their colouring was more true of ice than either sky or sea, the left hand figure and consequently the broader of the two, had tresses of tarnished gold, while the other had hair so fair in cast that it was almost white.

Legolas recognised them instantly, but their familiarity was no source of relief, rather it birthed disdain, and loath though he was to admit it, trepidation which bordered upon fear. Fervent ill feeling and contempt diffused into every fibre of his being, pressing down upon him. The thought of being waylaid by those who had marked him out for ridicule and depreciation was noisome.

A bristling wind hissed aggressively through the dark leaves, the boughs and branches of the trees swaying stiffly and disquietingly in a threatened warning.

Without conscious thought, Legolas shifted his position imperceptibly but accordingly so that he placed himself like a barrier between Breia and their pair of assailants, for that was how he viewed them. His first instinct never one of self preservation, but always to protect her instead.

Gripping the intricately carved stave between white knuckled fingers, he desperately wished that his only form of weaponry and defence was not a mere toy. He knew not with any conviction what they were capable of, or at what extent, if any, would their compassion for a fellow kinsman arrest them. But one thing was certain; he would take with ineffectual endurance and aloofness any torment they cared to deliver, just as soon as he managed to disengage Breia from the path of harm.

With a brash show of stoic calm and nerve, which belied the rapid pulsations of his heart and a thrill of dread which besieged and almost reduced him to quivering, he daringly met the gaze of his adversaries.

Breia, ignorant to such preluding events did not understand what passed between them. Her shock, which had quickly abated, was now rapidly gaining body in the form of unease.

"Greetings, _princeling._" The tarnished haired elf spoke the title like an insult, an ugly sneer consuming his countenance for an instant, detracting from the fairness of his features.

"Xanthus," Legolas returned stiffly and in forced civilities to the tarnished haired, "Tieme," to the white haired.

The latter laughed tauntingly, and announced in a tone of mock aghast;

"Observe the princelings decorum, and to us Xan! Surely we are not worthy to be thus addressed!" And therein, he fell into an eager bow and extravagant praises of the Lordship in training, which ranged from the lustre of his hair to the royal pride of his stance. All of which were delivered with a genteel sneer.

Legolas remained silent and impassive, though anger and hatred raged in him like a fire, burning from the inside out.

Breia's delicate hand slipping between the fingers of his proceeded her small but urgent whisper at his ear; "What is going on? Why are they behaving so?"

He knew not how to answer her, and even less with enough skill so as to avoid the detection of their communication, wishing to draw as little attention to her as possible. He remained silent, though he squeezed her hand in gentle reassurance.

"I would not be so bold in my commendations if I were you, Ti, it has often been my experience that the skills and feats of those with status suffer much engorgement," cautioned Xanthus. Then, noting the crafted stave that the elfling favoured as if it were a true weapon, he laughed coldly.

"For example, see here; our esteemed prince has not yet progressed from stave fighting to sword fighting, yet the rumours of his prowess are prodigious and would lead to such conjectures."

"By the Valar, you are right!" cried Tieme with sore disappointment, which still managed to betray mockery despite its disguising despondency. "How empty do praises fall upon a prince who is yet bested by two humble elves of little birthright!"

With a heart now frantic from anger instead of fear, and a voice constricted with emotion, he spoke with as much disdain, repugnance and insolence as one could deliver to an elder in so few words;

"You are a decade and six my senior."

In truth, his pride was stung. Insult to the person had not the same capacity to offend as insult to the proficiency. His graduation to blades lay but two weeks away, and while thus far he had been proud to have excelled as he did and by Izanda's appointment, to be the first in his class to advance, now he doubted the worth of his skills. It was just another deficiency for them to call him out upon, they who reduced all to the status of being Thranduil's son. However, he remained resolute in preserving an unaffected façade.

"Holding me to your standards is like holding you to the standards of Izanda. It is folly," he said with distinguish.

His disarming words, however, only led Tieme and Xanthus to further cruelty. All the while laughing mercilessly, Tieme lunged forward and in one violent movement wrenched the ornate stave from its owners grasp.

Legolas was forced to relinquish it without the adversity he would have otherwise presented, for at the same moment, Breia took a purposeful step forward, no doubt hastening to the defence of her companion; having seized Tieme and Xanthus as ill willing and a threat that one should not face in solitude. He honed all of his strength and then some in forcefully preventing her. Meeting his resistance, she quietened accordingly, but her hand remained resolutely placed in his. This time it was she who offered the reassurance.

Tieme made a showy evaluation of the staves craft, then, evidently finding it inadequate to his expectations, heaved a weighted sigh and pronounced;

"Alas, once again it appears that rumours of ability in craft can be equally as engorged as rumours of ability in combat. But at least our revered princeling can vouch for his integrity, which must, in the absence of skill count for something."

He lazily tossed the implement to Xanthus, who caught it with delightful disapproval. He turned it appraisingly between his fingers, shaking his head solemnly as he did so.

"Just as I thought; clumsy, careless, ill proportioned, unbalanced." He traced the intricate patterns which adorned the hilt, continuing his denouncement. Each critique stun like a separate arrow wound, penetrating and poisoning, slowly incapacitating Legolas' indifferent armour. They wanted to see him riled and he was determined to disappoint. "Unskilled, unimaginative, poorly executed, amateurish."

Xanthus then brought up his knee, and taking the hilt in one hand and the sword point in the other, brought the centre of the carved instrument forcefully down upon the appendage. The wood splintered and severed with a mournful _crack_. "And brittle, like the truth of his achievements."

Legolals instantly felt his heart similarly break in twain. There, in one callous act was destroyed a week and a half's careful and painstaking work, three months worth of use and a lifetimes worth of pride, at being his first functional piece. He deeply lamented its loss.

Still, he fought to remain composed and removed from outward emotion. He efforts were rewarded by prominent irritation which painted an ugly expression on the face of his adversaries.

It was a moment before he comprehended Breia's scornful shout of; "You had no right to do that!" And though she obligingly remained in his shadow, he could feel her shaking in anger against him.

Tieme and Xanthus exchanged a significant glance and then with renewed malevolence, advanced.

Legolas, defying every instinct which bade him to retreat, stood firm. Gently, but desperately, he traced his thumb twice across the plane of her hand, striving to pacify her, but her outrage could not be quelled.

In threatening proximity, Xanthus spoke in a low and dangerous tone; "And who are you to dictate what we may or may not do?" With each word he seemed to grow taller and more foreboding before their eyes, and the way in which the natural shadows accentuated his angular features served only to grant his expression a new malevolence. Adolescence lay claim to him, but in that instant he seemed already to have surpassed it.

Legolas, mustering every sentiment of courage, composure and command, drew himself up to full height and with an air of dictating authority, said; "Leave her alone. She has nothing to do with this. I care not what you do to me, but you shall not harm her. You've had your fun and destroyed a possession I prized, so now be gone and leave us be."

But their mockery would not be so easily disposed of, they remained steadfast in their hurtful employ, impervious to implore. Tieme, heading the applause loudly proclaimed the princeling's gift in speech, which almost negated his poor aptitude in every other area. Almost.

It was surprising how eager on the heels of fear and anger could tread exasperation, and even more how the three were intermittent and interchangeable counterparts of such a given situation. Sooner or later, anger and fear faded, for so fervent was either emotion that the energy and conviction needed to sustain them barely outlived their inception.

Having no more patience to endure their orbicular torment, and a heightening doubt of his ability to maintain the failing structure of his composure mask, he resolved in either bravery or folly (for at times the two were indistinguishable, and could don the guise of the other) to remove Breia and himself from the situation, thereby demonstrating a great strength of character and morality.

With bold conviction, still towing Breia close in his shadow, he executed three advancing steps towards the sanctuary of their home. Three steps, for that was all that was required for Tieme to belie any prospect of their parting, roughly shoving both elflings to the ground.

An ageless bedding of moss, leaf and decomposed debris broke their fall so that the only casualties of the violence were embarrassment and indignation.

Legolas made to alight almost immediately, resolute in preventing them from further presiding over him, determined to deny them the satisfaction of witnessing his spirit broken, or else resigned to apathy. But for all the valiance of his efforts, he was returned roughly and unceremoniously back to the ground.

"Stay down!" Xanthus commanded with a tone as close to animosity as Legolas had ever heard, "you're not going anywhere."

The very air was still, poised, waiting with bated breath. The distressed hiss of rustling leaves, which in stages of increment had provided percussion to the four elflings exchange, abruptly abated and a tangible tension diffused into the atmosphere.

Breia shivered slightly, though she knew not whether it amounted from her own trepidation or was simply in response to the tense environment.

Standing immediately before the two elflings and deriving a sense of great pleasure from the physical representation of looking down upon the one, who in the course of centuries to come, they were bound to look up to, Xanthus spoke thus with serendipity and relish:

"We find ourselves exposed to inactivity and boredom, and therefore, would seek amusement. Amusement that you _will_ provide. You beg us; leave you be, therefore, princeling, we shall make you an accord. Prove to us your daring, ingenuity and worth in a game of Valiant's Heart and we shall trouble you no further. You have our word."

"I am not bound to prove anything to you," he contested calmly and reasonably. Breia nodded in prominent accordance beside him.

"To us personally, maybe not," permitted Tieme with an air of profundity, and a tone which questioned the soundness of Legolas' understanding, which the elfling found quite offensive. "But think on it, princeling, does not a king in each endeavour strive to prove himself again and again against adverse odds, whether in war, politics or practice? Are his triumphs not steeped in reverence and prestige, far outliving their performance, while his defeats suffer the depreciation and discord of his nation, far outliving their king? Is he not bound to nurture loyalties through proof of worth and valour and integrity, while anything less may well sabotage exactly that which he endeavours to achieve? So think once again, and this time more wisely upon you answer."

As much as Legolas resented it, and resent it he did, he could not deny their logic. Long had he watched his _ada_, encumbered with the dual responsibility owed to his allies and his people, laboriously weigh the prospective pros and cons of each course of action before appointing any to execution. To make decisions both favourable and necessary, which did not always please the whole, to appease or else command to actions against an enemy. To act when acting meant the conclude of peaceable living and the institute of times steeped in sorrow, uncertainty, suspicion and death. To do nothing, when doing nothing meant suffering and destruction. To thread his way through a world of choices and decisions, where at each junction the outcome was concealed, and where upon the course of each path the potential for consequence, blame and recrimination were always waiting in the wings to befall the unwary. All of this was the duty of a king, a duty perpetually appraised and evaluated by those, who in ignorance, would charge it synonymous with childs-play and testify their self-righteous suppositions of how things could and ought to have been better handled.

For the first time, Legolas viewed his birthright as a burden, as something which segregated him from others, marked him out as different; a figure of great expectations and equal resentment among his peers and exposed him to critique and judgement in a way that was not owed to Breia.

Suddenly, he was daunted by the prospect which had never before seemed so prominent, but now seemed to dictate all.

"You are under no obligation to endorse them," Breia whispered rapidly and reasonably at his side. But upon holding his regard, she saw in those sensitive eyes that fierce conviction which his nature was privy to, and knowing the battle was all but lost, amended; "They admit themselves, though begrudgingly that you have no necessity to prove yourself to them. There is truth in their words but they paint it in a different shade. Do not be taken in."

With defiance in her ocean blue eyes, she stared up at Tieme and Xanthus – who were growing quickly impatient – resenting them with all the passion of hatred one so innocent could possess.

Then, returning her gaze to Legolas, and in resignation, for she could read his expressions as easily as he could hers, said; "If you must do it, do it for your own purposes, not to satisfy theirs."

Resolute and determined he stood. His very boldness an open defiance to their swiping his feet from beneath him again. He would meet their challenge with proficiency and he would triumph, if only to rid himself of their torment, for as elvish custom certified, ones word was their law, even when it was spoken from the mouth of an intimidator.

"I accept. Name your challenge." Their expressions were twinned in victory and self-satisfaction, though somehow, they still managed to convey a sense of malevolence even in evident joy.

"Excellent! Then if your heart be valiant let it carry you one mile down the river atop the discarded barrels. If it be not, then proclaim it … " Xanthus spoke succinctly, lips lighted by a smug smile.

"My heart be valiant -" Legolas began, but his assent was interrupted by Breia's impress to the elder elfings, calling their own daring into question;

" - If you honour the accord and match Legolas' actions yourself. Those are our terms." Rising dignified to her feet, she crossed her arms in a stern and unyielding gesture. She could conjecture well enough the nature of their intentions and sought to denounce them.

For a moment, their composure waned as Tieme and Xanthus conferred in fervent whispers upon this new turn of events, before, finding no suitable objection of excuse, they consented, albeit a little begrudgingly.

"Very well, then it is settled."

Their party was one of aversive companionship and distrustful tolerance, thrown together by bitter feeling. Each spoke exceedingly little and traded furtive glances across their divide.

Tieme and Xanthus, taking point a pace or two ahead, were uncharacteristically solemn pertaining the prospect of they themselves engaging in the challenge they had reserved for the royal one; striving to shake his composure and stoicism. Readily, the idea seemed to lack the same allure it had at its founding, and in emphatic silence, they cursed their own foolishness in assenting, the price of pride, for they would not willingly suffer the shame of withdrawing.

Meanwhile, Legolas and Breia bringing up the rear, though equally daunted were a little more verbose. While he endeavoured to identify some form of argument that would prevent her from participating in this rash and folly course of biased rivalry, and which would simultaneously prove inoffensive to her spirit, she subduedly lamented that thus far at least, he had suffered through their spiteful torment both in solitude and in silence. How had she remained ignorant of it? The answer disquietingly evident; because he had wished it so.

"Why didn't you tell me what was going on? What they were doing?" She sighed, unable to combat the sorrow which diffused into her tone, endorsing it with melancholy.

His expression bespoke surprise at how gravely she was effected by his reserve upon the matter. Still speaking with remove he reasoned gently; "What would have been gained by my laying my troubles upon you, except only to make them seem all the more foreboding, and begift them a more potent power and prominence? Sometimes troubles are more difficult to share with another than to suffer through alone. Besides, their tirade is tiresome and irritating, but nothing more." His words were spoken in earnest, though they but caressed the truth.

"And who are you striving to convince more of that? Me, or yourself?" Her tone was a resigned intuitive. Legolas just smiled but made no answer. The gesture was answer enough.

"You were afraid …" she realized, "afraid that I would see you differently, weaker, if you told me." Again he made no answer, just stared determinedly ahead.

"You were wrong," she replied quietly, though none the less passionately. That earned her a grateful smile.

"But at least assure me that you told _someone_."

"_Ada_. I told _ada._"

...

_Legolas gazed wistfully into the iridescent depths of the year-round flames, which provided light in the absence of heat. Sitting cross-legged before the grate and in a mood of avid dejection, he pursued the pastime of reading without avail. _

_His mind would not relinquish the cruel words spoken in the epitome of taunting, his knees and elbows would not abate their cantankerous stinting from where they had savagely made contact with the rough ground in the wake of an attack from behind, and his heart would not deny the slivers of truth in their accusations. He was ridiculed and mocked even in their absence by memory. _

_The scene was one of melancholy and incomprehension; he just could not conjecture why two of his kindred had taken it upon themselves to inspire in him such abject misery, why they regarded him with such disdain. Knowing them not beyond sight, he could confidently certify never having done anything to cause them offence – but then, their cruelty was only further heightening by its insensibility. _

_He violently tugged his braids loose with a kind of desperation that was distressing to observe. Having already been prematurely excused from dinning on account of little appetite, and by so doing, inadvertently eliciting suspicion, he knew that he would not be long left to his self-sought solitude. _

_Therefore, he was resigned to his ada's entrance and the gentle utterance of his name that it heralded; in a softness of tone which both invited confidence and conveyed concern, but still rung with the ceaseless persistence owned only by parents. _

_Though having no desire towards conversation nor company, Legolas possessed not the heart to reproof his ada, and so begrudgingly, complied to suffer through the exchange._

_Thranduil noiselessly took a seat beside his son, mimicking the regiment position, gilded robes embellishing the hearth rug in finery where they lay. For a moment both were silent, collectively observing the writhing flames, feeling no undue urgency to break the reprieve, before Thranduil's gaze shifted to his dear one and there remained. _

"_What troubles you, _ion nin_?" His tone was one of calm anxiety. _

_In that instant, Legolas intended confession, intended to lay bare with as much haste as comprehension would permit all that had occurred that day, lest he should lose his resolve or else give way to shame. But instead, all he found himself uttering was a defensive; "Nothing." The flames illuminated distress in his eyes. _

_Purposefully but delicately, Thranduil took hold of his sons arm and with gentle movements, carefully extricated it from the sleeve of his tunic. His eyes were at once assailed by the sight of an impressive abrasion, spanning the length of his sons forearm to elbow; where the skin suffered its worse severing. The injury was fresh, moist and angry._

_An inscrutable expression impressed itself upon the elflings countenance; almost like a shadow upon the footsteps of light, a ghosted image of some indistinct emotion; not quite anger, not quite resentment, not quite guilt, not quite indignation. It was an estranged expression that Thranduil had never witnessed darken his sons features before; haunted, oppressed. Legolas' gaze upon the hearth was intense and unwavering. _

_Keenly, Thranduil examined the abrasions, and even as he performed his ministrations, spoke with fondness and sadness; "Not yet are you wise, nor cunning enough to conceal from me your pains, whether they be physical or else. How did this happen?"_

_His answer was readily prepared, though he was acutely aware in that insignificant moment of his ada's omniscience, which deferred even the value of his attempt. _

"_I fell." His lie was flat. _

"_By whose hands?" Thranduil insisted with unintentional heat, composure momentarily riled, unable to prevent his anger at the rough treatment of his son from permeating his tone. _

_Finding the abrasions sufficiently tended to he released Legolas' arm, the elfling quickly drew it back into the concealment of his tunic, retreating, if possible, even further into himself, pursuing solace._

_He didn't want to tell, to admit, to relive and he didn't understand why. His sole conviction was that confession would only gratify worse torment, that this was something better left concealed, not shared. He just wished the world would retreat, leave him to silence and solitude, where the only possible institute of misery was himself. _

_But the world would never be so compliant, he knew that. _

_Thranduil was persistent, he would not willingly stand by and see his son suffer at the hands of another without endeavouring to prevent it, not while there was breath in his body. _

"Tithen pen ..._" the endearment wrung with authority and command, inviting no opportunity for avoidance or digression, though it never surrendered its fondness and melancholy._

"_I know not their names," sighed Legolas unwillingly, "They are older, adolescents almost." His shoulder slumped as if he had committed some carnal sin by his confession. Still he refused to meet his ada's eyes and his posture commandeered a new rigidity._

"_Has this happened before?"The Elvenking dreaded the answer, dreaded to think his son had shouldered this oppression for any length of time in his ignorance. No parent ever wants to learn that their vigilance and protection are not enough. _

"_Nay, just today. They approached me after my sparring lesson with Izanda. They said … things" His expression was marred with painful recollections. _

"_What did they say, _ion nin_?"_

_Between stuttering breaths, pregnant pauses which seemed to endure endlessly, indicating an aversion to continuity, and nervous glances, Legolas relayed the bulk of their tirade, feeling foolish and ashamed, speaking their insults aloud seemed to diminish them, but their torment was only half comprised of _what_ they said, the other half comprised of _how_ they said it. Defensiveness transpired into misery, and misery sought comfort. _

"_... I do not understand," he concluded dejectedly. _

_Seeking to console his distressed son, Thranduil gently lifted him, marvelling at how quickly he was growing, and set him upon his lap as he had done in infancy, enveloping him in a reassuring embrace and assuming a soothing oscillating motion. Legolas fought to hold back tears as he sunk needfully into his ada's embrace; sharing his troubles had done nothing to curb them, only heighten their effective misery and he regretted the action. _

"_I shall see to it that this matter is resolved, _ion nin_, they shall trouble you no further, you have my word," Thranduil vowed, tenderly smoothing his sons tresses, fingers finding the knotted ends where Legolas had roughly tugged his braids loose. _

_He was surprised, therefore, when Legolas pulled away, a look of fevered wildness and dread lighting his eyes for an instant and said with fervent alarm; "Nay ada! You cannot! It will only succeed in making things worse!"_

_With feigned composure, he resigned to the task of de-tangling the knots in Legolas' silken hair – born from his sons own violence of feeling – though his heart ached with turmoil. It was a riddle to triumph all riddles; the devastation when a child tells their parents that despite their best efforts, they could not right every wrong, they could not solve every problem and they could not shelter them from the harshness of the world. The day they knew that their parents power ended in the home. How could he help when his own son was adverse to his aid?_

"_Then what would you have me do?" he implored._

"_Nothing. Do nothing. I – I shall ignore them. They will eventually tire of their attempts when they see it gains them nothing," he feigned indifference and bravery, though he possessed no sentiments of either, in an attempt to reassure; "It is just ..." he tapered off, expression failing him. _

"_It is far from just," said Thranduil quietly, once again settling Legolas back into his embrace, taking heart from his compliance. "But what we must endeavour to remember, _ion nin_, we that are benevolent even in the face of disdain is that; in the years immediately preluding our Begetting Day we neither possess the amiable temperament of our elflinghood, nor the reserve or stoicism of adulthood. We are besieged by such a passion and zeal of emotion as leaves us more akin to the race of men than to our own kindred. One day, you shall experience it too, but this, like all things, must end. It is, however, a time renowned for persuading jealousy and ill feeling, both of which seek unfavourable outlets. This does not excuse, though it does endeavour to explain." Thranduil brushed his lips against Legolas' forehead, sensing a calmness and comprehension washing over his beloved one, usurping the tension in his muscles. His expression was no longer pained, but revelational, and he spoke with a soft wonder;_

"_So then, I should pity them?" For the first time that evening he met his fathers gaze with his own, eyes wide and innocent, but behind their gleam, wise and intuitive._

"_If pity be your feeling, then let it guide you. Pity their ignorance in being not able to envision the person beyond the title, pity the depth of their own insecurities that they must depreciate your achievements to enlarge their own. Yes, ion nin, indeed I think we must pity them, if we are not to resent them._

"_Hostility in retaliation to hostility ensures only defeat upon either side. Therefore, if you will not allow me to aid you, for fear of worsening the matter, then at least hear my advice: treat them with the civility and deference you would a friend and you will already have built yourself higher than their words or actions can reach._

"_Your birthright leaves you more prone to observation, criticism and expectation in a way that others may forseeably take for granted. But do not be disheartened," he begged in response to Legolas' fallen expression, "it means little to the regard of a friend. Therefore, take comfort in the truth spoken by one who knows you best, that their words possess no sway nor meaning. They are the woundless wit of strangers who would have themselves presume to know us." _

_Legolas was ignorant to when and how it had occurred, but he suddenly realized that he was no longer ruled by thoughts of their torment. Rather than their words eliciting from him fear or trepidation, their very venomousness served only to prove the discontent of their speakers. Finally, he was reassured, and within that assurance he resolved to frustrate them with remove and civility, rather than indulge them with anger._

_Exhaustion had lain claim to him almost immediately after, and as he lay nestled in his ada's arms, battling valiantly to stave off sleep in order to receive answer, he asked;_

"_Is it always this way? Unreasoned hate" _

_Despite his unyielding efforts to remain intelligible, the bulk of Thranduil's words were lost to him, though through the haze and confusion of sleep, he caught and retained one particular phrase amongst all others;_

"_... Sometimes we have to take a leap of faith, to show those undeserving of such efforts that we are worth believing in ..." _

_..._

But when the time came, the pity he had ere professed was difficult to maintain in the face of resentment, hatred and hurt.

Finally, a view of the impressive fortress, cut into living rock, was afforded to them as the meagre forest path deferred to a modest road, affronted by sentry trees upon either edge, uniform in interval. Home.

Surpassing the domed bridge which forded the black and stifled waters that rushed listlessly by, they gained the sheer, stone carved steps, preludes of the great timbre gate, designed to arrest any laden visitor. But upon encountering it, they turned aside towards the west and struck an alternate course, one little tread, if at all.

Doubts concerning the advisability of their intended endeavour were prominently graduated to the forefront of all their minds, though none would venture to voice them. An honest admittance and this trial could be discounted, but pride and stubbornness triumphed over fear, even more were they adverse to appearing weak in the eyes of their friends and fiends alike. Such is the way of childhood; to belie the truth for the simple point of belying it, just to deny another the satisfaction of being right.

Instead, Legolas and Breia turned their attentions to a happier prospect, though it was one no less uncertain.

"Do you think they will keep their word?" she asked striving to sound indifferent and not accusatory, but really sounding sceptical.

"If they are honourable; yes. Then they will be bound by it." His expression was inscrutable as she tried to read it.

"I think you may be giving their honour too much credit," she said with a little bitterness, once again exasperated by his willingness to redeem even those who had showed him nothing but disdain.

"Mayhap I do, but it is a nobler course than giving it no credit at all; for if I did not believe in its virtue, what would be gained by humouring them?"

Their destination was nothing more than a subterranean cave underlying their homelands foundations. To follow its light absent course would result indistinguishably in death and slow decay, but what issued forth from its yawning mouth in eager swells was a moderate stream, which three-hundred yards down, met in conjunction with the waters of the great river before running on in concurrence beyond to Lake Town. It was this course that the barrels followed.

Gaining its vantage, they affirmed that the portcullis was partially raised, signalling that the latter of two daily barrel discharges was imminent, though none of the caskets had yet hit the waters.

"You first," called Xanthus with relish, awarding Legolas a forceful push forwards.

Legolas shrugged and proceeded, though it appeared that Breia would have liked to protest. First, last, it was still the same entrance into the unknown whatever order executed.

He was done playing the doting victim to their tirade, his thoughts were bent only on triumph; they would rue the day they measured him as worthless. There was an air of purpose and regalement about his gait as he determinedly entered the cave mouth.

Bordering either side of the cave was a small ledge, no more than a rim founded by constant water erosion. It's girth was barely wide enough to permit an elflings foot, and with its backing wall an uneven complex of jutting extremities, it made for a perfidious landing.

The sound of energetic waters within the confine were greatly amplified and had the power to disconcert. The air, a peculiar compound of moist and acrid. Every empiricism served to reinforce the folly and danger of their actions and elicited in him equal parts thrill and apprehension.

Breia followed shortly afterwards, unease prevalent. He held out his hand to steady her as her slow steps bridged the distance between them. She accepted the offer, and that was when he knew she was scared.

They were joined almost immediately by Tieme and Xanthus, who were rather excessive in stature for such a venture and were forced to bow their backs, while Legolas and Breia could stand erect, unhindered.

"Now we wait." Tieme's voice echoed in the hollow. Vaguely, he wondered how boredom and prejudice had lead to this, he could trace their path with ease, but what had struck them upon that path in the first instance? In the partially enclosed environment, he felt his own heart quail, and could no more find it within himself to call the princeling upon his evident disquiet, than to quell the shaking in his own limbs. He envied Xanthus his composure.

The latter, meanwhile, was in the same moment seriously debating the validity of their campaign, and though his countenance was expressionless, his mind was deeply troubled.

It was not long before the melody of speech and the _scraping_, rolling and _clashing_ of barrels was heard from above. Then, a trapdoor, which marked the only disruption in the natural construction, opened inwards overhead and a cascade of buoyant barrels rained down from above with thunderous commotion, echoing reverberations in the deep.

As each _slapped_ the water it sent forth a fountain of footmen to lay siege to the four stowaways, before bustling and clambering over one another at the portcullis which arrested their progress; all the while clamouring tempestuously.

Some fell straight and true, while others were buffeted and bounced, dashing dangerously against the walls of the cave. There was a heart-stopping moment where Tieme almost fell prey to one such rogue, emerging ashen-faced and breathing hard, but unhurt. Immediately, Legolas and Breia, at the farthest end of their quartet, ventured further into the recesses of the cave in order to afford him some protection; all bitter feeling and dispute for the moment discounted in the face of prominent danger, which ironically served to unify them. His words of gratitude were lost to the tremendous din.

They counted; fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, and then the procession abruptly ceased. There was a shout for the portcullis to be lifted, before every subsequent utterance was all but lost to hearing by two finality evoking _thuds_, which signalled the restoration of the trapdoor.

With an erratically jarring course, the portcullis lumbered upwards and the impatient barrels rushed forth, leaving the time for procrastination spent.

All four traded significant glances, remaining resolute at the last opportunity to stand down, before Tieme, at the head of their party, leapt with feigned confidence onto the arch of the closest barrel, which was wedged against the cave-side by two of its fellows.

His landing was less than ceremonious and instead of the elegant descent into straddling he intended, the movement was closer to an awkward tumble as his vessel shifted beneath him. Legolas and Breia were both heartened and daunted.

Next went Xanthus, who was taller and broader than any of his companions. The barrels shifted precariously beneath his step, threatening all the while to overthrow him as he employed them like stepping stones to gain the casket on Tieme's immediate left. He was effectively humbled; size and brute strength were not at all times advantageous.

This left the two rearmost barrels, bobbing placidly and non-threatening, to the younger elflings, though both vessels for their calm appearance, were free and unrestrained, posing a new difficulty.

Turning to face her, Legolas only managed so far as to utter her name before all sentiments of passionate argument died upon his lips at the compilation of her expression. It was evident that not even the debate of her life would prevent her participation in this endeavour. So, admitting defeat, his conceded; "I'll take the furthest."

It was credit to her feeling for him that she permitted this dictation. Where others saw concern and protection, she saw only oppression.

The barrels progress was quick now and Tieme and Xanthus had already gained the portcullis. Feeling all the pressure of time, Legolas permitted himself but an instant to gage their vessels distance and relative proximity, before squaring his shoulders and taking a leap of faith.

The buoyant casket dipped a little upon his landing, and he stumbled minutely; quickly spreading his feet the length of its body and casting his arms out for balance. His lighter frame was certainly of undue benefit, for it did not so easily upset the barrels distribution as Xanthus' had done. He quickly acclimatized to its bobbing, shivering, oscillating movement, aware all the while of its steady forward progression, and Breia's matching parallel upon the ledge in readiness.

Momentarily, he considered dropping down into position atop this barrel, thereby effectively preventing her participation, but he instantly banished the notion. Sometimes it was better to humour determination than to oppose it, even if its nature was reckless, and what gave him the authority to rule what she could or could not do?

So, steeling himself for another attempt, in one fluid movement, he brought his feet back together, ignoring the unsettling rocking which the motion heralded, and leapt, praying precision, accuracy and luck. This time he landed more expertly and immediately dropped into position; one leg either side of the portly shape, feet and ankles submerged, bowed low over its body and arms spread wide. It was like trying to ride a very rounded, very high-spirited pony. The heavy, black water was ice.

A swell of excitement overcome all fear and infused every instant of the venture with an emphatic significance only witnessed in the momentous intervals of our lives. He knew that every sight, smell, sound and touch was worth remembrance for they were the empirical representations which safeguarded the reality of the event. Histories were about to be written, victories about to be won, dangers about to be faced, and four elflings, separately unified, were privy to it all.

Remaining afloat commanded all of Legolas' attention, so that he heard rather than witnessed Breia alight. Eager to affirm her status, he called back to her;

"Everything okay?"

"Everything is brilliant!" came the animated return at his side. By kicking her feet minutely, she had easily made up the distance between them, and as one, they passed through the portcullis and out into the world, newborns blinking in the comparative brightness.

Almost immediately, the lay of the land angled into a steep decline and they quickly gathered speed. The black waters whispered in their wake as their vessels scoured the surface, swirling and eddying about their ankles.

Encroaching upon either side, trees overhung the bank; as stooped, twisted and bowed as the oldest fathers of men. The solemn and wistful leaves of heads too heavy to raise adorned the rippling glass like native flowers. While stiff and engorged roots burst the confines of the riverside, forming twisted structures at the waters edge which hungrily gathered debris like sedentary hunters.

It was to such a living outcrop that Tieme and Xanthus had anchored themselves in wait. They watched intermittently as the majority of the casks floated jauntily out into the great river – absent four of their fellows – and as their circumstantial companions approached from behind; appearing perceptibly more comfortable upon this venture than the elder two felt.

Their was an art, as Legolas and Breia soon identified, to barrel riding, which rather than depending upon control as with a horse, depended upon counter-balancing, for these inanimate steeds could not be tamed. Each fluctuation and shift which the barrels were subject to required a movement of equal momentum in the opposing direction to prevent their riders from being overthrown. It was an unceasing employ which soon developed into an easy habit and ere long they sat tall and erect, confident in their ability, opposed to crouched low over the portly figure for fear of falling into the indistinct depths.

Still they gathered speed as the river ran straight and true; laughing and whooping exuberantly at the turn of fortune which had morphed bitter feuds and impertinent challenges into an enthralling adventure.

With the rivers breadth being wide enough only to permit one barrel at its breech, Legolas gained point; moving his legs evenly and measuredly back and forth. He learned accordingly as he rounded a bend in the rivers course, and Tieme and Xanthus, anchored upon either side of the river, just shy of the point where it met and was enveloped by its superior brother, came into view.

He was surprised to discover that somewhere between the blackness and trepidation of the cave and now, his hostility towards those he would eagerly denounce as fiends had somewhat diminished, though bitter feeling was still prevalent. Life time and again proved that the most violent adversaries could be made friends circumstance when chance events saw them unite against a common threat, or else submit to it. Meanwhile, innocence granted ready forgiveness, and was too unsullied to entertain grudges, which were the friends of the tarnished.

As he drew level with them, they carefully pushed away from their docking, and constituting a tidy arrowhead formation, all four road the swells and undercurrents that predominated the point where the two bodies merged, with all the besetting poise and grace native to their race.

When the mesmerising swirls of the great river tapered out into a placid stretch, they travelled four abreast. The indifferent water for all the suns influence, however, still retained the shrewd, biting chill of midwinter and appeared fathomless to the eye as even sunlight did not penetrate beyond its surface.

A gentle breeze; the craft of movement, toyed with their tresses and caressed their fair features as their homeland sailed nonchalantly by around them.

"I've traversed these parts before; following the river." Even as he spoke, Tieme's back remained perceptibly bowed over the length of the casket, though he sat somewhat erect, looking unwillingly sheepish and uncertain, trying to protect his wavering dignity.

When one could swim, what, therefore, was the fear of falling in? None but the fear of the fall itself, but yet the chance occurrence endured as an irksome worry.

"It's path is straight and smooth for the first half a mile, so we will meet no trouble here. The challenge is further up-river where it transpires into a maze of twists, turns, rapids, rocks and perfidious landings, but we shall leave it ere we come upon the worst of these."

The first part of their journey passed as uneventfully as predicted; the river ran wide and placid, carving its course indiscriminately into the lands. Steep embankments marked their course with unconcern upon either side, overhung with knotted vines and ivy, which reached thirstily for sustenance, and bowled at their foundations from an age of water erosion so that they resembled outcrops.

The ride was undemanding, a gentle current beneath the surface ferrying the cargo and its riders with all the delicacy of a mother baring her newborn babe. All that was required of the four elflings were intermittent strokes with their submerged feet when one barrel wavered its way into the course of another, for they were impossible to steer. Confidence flourished and tedium quickly festered.

However, such is the volatile temperament of nature that their way rapidly suffered alternation, so that the embellished novices quickly regretted their eager progression. It happened in such as manner as to render the gradient steps all but imperceptible when experienced, but predominantly evidential to recollection.

First, they picked up speed; the barrels advanced with more purpose than before, not quite so content as to list digressively upon the waters. Then, the landscape angled downwards and kept on declining so that they knew when they left the boundaries of their kingdom behind, which had been founded upon a plateau, and would ere long come upon the lands of the river-men.

Successively, their course began to twist and turn, minutely at first, but then in sharp, serpentine angles, which embedded erratic currents that delivered to perfidious beaching any loose debris; constituting an eccentric collection of oddments which lapped against the land in the waters swells.

Next the mirrored sheet came alive with writhing movement, first it rippled like small reverberations from an unknown point of disturbance, becoming progressively larger. They graduated into waves; small hillocks upon the surface, which became roiling hillsides, which became sharp peaks and which then amassed into torrent after torrent of white crested walls which slammed mercilessly against the barrels rocking and twisting them with unslakable violence.

The four elflings fought to stay afloat as they rounded another sharp angle in the lay of the river, the contesting undercurrents jostling them disquietingly. It was all they could do to avoid capsizing.

But, while the other three surpassed this obstetrical relatively unscathed, Xanthus, whose barrel appeared to have let in copious amounts of water found himself listing desperately, unavoidably towards the small spit of land just beyond the waterline, the exchanging debt for triumph, where he found himself breeched and hopelessly stranded.

Struggling wildly, he carved rents into the sand-like earth with his feet, fighting to disengage himself, but to no avail.

With tangible distress and panic he wheeled around, fearfully searching for aid, but all of his companions were upstream, and upon this road their was no opportunity for backtracking. He watched breathlessly as each managed to anchor themselves to some peculiar structure of the rivers edge; completely separated and cut off from one another. They shouted mute instructions to him, which could not conquer the aggressive hiss of rushing water.

For a brief spell he thoroughly repulsed the course of action which had led him to this moment, and considered with equal parts shame and admonishment how he was going to liberate himself from this situation, for the chance of his freedom lay solely upon his shoulders, give up and he resigned himself to certain misery and a lengthy wait.

With forced calm, he evaluated his surroundings. The bank was a sheer face; in-scalable, the small beach-land gave way to temperamental waters ten yards upon either side, swimming was no optional course of action, and there was no way of crossing. He had just about resolved remaining atop his steadily submerging casket as the only pliable option when his gaze fell upon a large, sturdy branch resting just shy of the shoreline and inspiration struck.

Deftly, he caught it up in his hands – it held a fair amount of weight – and stripped its structure free of all appendages so that only the thick trunk remained. Then, steeling himself for a monuments effort, he threw its sharpest end into the sand so that its purchase was considerable, and with all his strength, resolve, will and then some, pushed his body away from it, until the barrel began to stutter and grind against the rough particles beneath.

Arms burning, head spinning and ears deaf with the force, he refused to surrender, pushing beyond physical discomfort, pushing beyond pain, pushing beyond the normal realms of endurance; mind over matter.

More grinding, groaning and hissing, a small stutter, then a tumultuous rolling as the barrel slid free and continued the ark, his hold upon the rooted branch his only saving grace.

Hands shaking, heart hammering, breathing shallow, quick and unsatisfying, he rejoined the current, feeling greatly shaken and desirous of land beneath his feet.

"Are you alright? What happened?" Tieme's fervent concern carried across the distance which narrowed every second. He desperately straining to appraise his friends status.

It was a few moment before Xanthus drew par with his comrades, and they disengaged from their landing places. It was a while longer before he found his voice;

"My barrel must have sprung a leak, it's been letting in water and as I rounded the rivers bend it lumbered towards the land, the rivers shallower draft meant I became wedged in the sand. I couldn't move it." For the first time the elflings noted how low down in the water Xanthus' barrel floated in comparison to their own.

"I feared you would not recognise my absence," he continued, observing Tieme; who paled perceptibly at the same thought. Then turning to Legolas and Breia; "Or that you would purposely forsake me."

And there it was. All bullies were running scared of something, but not all were cowards. Xanthus and Tieme ran from themselves, ran from the world and ran from the prospect of maturity, each of which grew more oppressive, more daunting and more unavoidable each day. The security of youth renounced them to a void of uncertainty even as the strove to prevent it, leaving them exposed and vulnerable. Stature didn't matter, years were insignificant, bravado was a lie, they were still elflings; children.

Finally, Legolas understood and anger, bitterness and resentment faded instantaneously, and he did pity them.

"You really do not know me at all," he said with sad sincerity, trying to convey a multitude of feelings within a single glance, for the first time holding Xanthus' glance as an equal. He was understood.

"Nay, it appears not. More fool us, huh?" Xanthus' tone was honest and humble. Legolas shrugged, defferent as ever.

"We could always start afresh? Forget any of this ever happened."

Tieme and Xanthus traded soulful glances, all hostility and harshness thawed from their countenances, and smiled. They were not unscrupulous, they were not unfeeling.

"If you are willing, Legolas, then we would be honoured," Xanthus bowed his head in a respectful gesture, the first he had ever awarded the elfling. And there fell the tears of peace upon the fiery battlefield.

Breia shook her head exasperatedly; boys! Sometimes they were incomprehensible; an unfathomable sea, an unbreachable fortress; an impenetrable woodland. They imbued their secrets at their guarded hearts and concealed their motives from knowledge, while the rest of the world was resigned to guesswork and imprecise conjectures.

She did not trust Tieme and Xanthus, not by a long shot, and she trusted their accord even less. Though she valued the insight of Legolas' judgement, she resolved to keep a close watch upon them, though even to her, the cynic, it was undeniable that some sentiment of alteration had came over them, effecting them for the better.

"We need to get off the river," she called firmly to her companions. Her conviction was met by three identical expressions of offence erected upon the foundations of stubbornness, scandal and resistance. She silently cursed their competitive pride and blatant disregard for their own safety, before reasoning exasperatedly;

"Oh come on! Have you not proved yourself enough to each other by now? We all know how easily bravery transcends into stupidity when it is over-tried. The challenge is complete and you have been tried valiant, the river is only going to become worse the further upstream we travel and I am not eager to be dashed against the rocks like some inconsequential stick in the throws of a storm. If you are, then may the Valar be with you." She fixed them in turn with a hard stare.

It took a few moments for reason to penetrate the cast of daring-born madness, but eventually Legolas, recommitting to sense, acquiesced; "You are right, of course."

"If memory serves me well, when I rambled these parts last some two-month ago, a tree had fallen; cast down in a storm, but more particular to us, it had fallen into the river. It's boughs were wedged between the crevices and fissures of a particularly spectacular natural formation at its centre, while it's roots, still partially embedded, anchored it powerfully to the bank above. High enough suspended that the barrels would flow beneath it unhindered, low enough that we could reach it from the waters without undue effort. Very sturdy. We have not yet surpassed it, which means it must lay yet upon our trial. That is our best option."

Tieme's brow creased as his mind retraced the steps of his springtime wander, a venture which had seemed so insignificant in its undertaking; a ramble to ease the spell of restlessness which had been upon him, but which was now steeped in import, somehow rendering the details adverse to recollection.

However, nature was not so yielding. All the while, the terrain of the riverbed worsened and the rough-smooth edges of bite-less rocks scoured their feet with malicious mockery. From the churning, tumultuous depths, unreachable by light and eye, burst great grey structures, sharp and bold against the sky like amateur-hewn pillars. While in the shallows, groups of devoted admirers congregated to worship their idols. Gowned in white foam, they leered menacingly; each angle cut sharper than an arrowhead, each edge deadlier than a spear. Pollutants in the pool of life.

But that was not the worst of it. Those dangers were evident, observable and avoidable, what was worse were the tangled reeds which named the sun-starved riverbed their home. They reached with cold and slimy fingers to capture ankles, legs, toes, tearing mercilessly at skin as in-severable as woven cotton. They lapped hungrily at the surface, their colour lost to the mutable depths.

Shielding his eyes from the glare of the westerning sun, Legolas scanned the distant riverbed, pleading wordlessly for deliverance.

"There! I see it!"

His companions followed his indicatives as all four rounded another hairpin bend and were awarded an uncompromising view.

There it had indeed fallen, and there it still lay; bowed to the waters, which had sustained it and now claimed it, feathery head submerged and stripped steadily of foliage by the current. An ageless Oak; weathered, twisted, knolled but still proud even in its defeat. Half exposed roots had wrenched the ground, reaching skyward like rigid limbs suspended in the throes of death. For all their lamentation at its demise, it was a beautiful sight. An image of victory, of sombre regalement.

They could not help but be heartened; their venture long since deprived of its allure, its thrill and its enjoyment; every positive regard blotted by its negative brother. Encroaching upon them all was a pressing sense of dread which would not abate, and lead to trepidation spawned aspersions of misfortune. The proverbial caution to quit while ahead seemed here especially befitting.

Wordlessly, they positioned themselves, employing the vicious rocks either to propel themselves forwards or else fall back within the formation, their hands wounded soldiers to this effort. With nothing more explanatory than significant glances, they acquiesced that Breia should take point, being the youngest, smallest and in appearance, most vulnerable of their party.

She bore their gallantry with mild indignation, but knowing it was heartfelt, donned an outward cast of good humour.

Next came Xanthus, whose barrel sunk worryingly lower and lower into the waters. Damp upto his waist, he was more than ready to resign this venture to memory.

While, brining up the rear, were Legolas and Tieme, self appointed guardsmen of their fellows, assuring their safety before their own.

Their landing rapidly approached and ignoring the ever-nearing rapids which existed like a blemish upon the fair face of beauty, the grasping reeds which hunted their prey with heightening desperation and the perfidious formations which lay half concealed beneath the surface, misleading to the last and violently buffeting the barrels off course if they ever strayed too close, they focused solely upon it.

"We only get one shot at this," cautioned Tieme, uneasily, "so make it count … If the worst should happen and you fall in, try to anchor yourself to something. Try to swim beneath the current, swimming upon the surface is a useless effort." He received three affirmative sounds, indicating that he had been understood.

Each second of their approach seemed to blur into one long stretch marking them indistinguishable, and then, before they were ready and long after they had steeled themselves for the effort, the deciding moment was upon them.

Throwing her arms into the air, Breia reached and purchased hold of a thick branch. For an instant she hesitated, allowing the barrel the slip from beneath her and continue its course unhindered. Then, in one powerful movement, she hoisted herself up onto the trunk, with all the fluidity of silk in a breeze. Standing motionless for a few seconds until her feet reacclimatized to the abrupt change of functioning, she then flitted joyously along its length to the sanctuary of immovable ground.

Xanthus' ascent was a little more cumbersome. In not quite so ceremonious fashion and with the accepted offer of Breia's hand as a lever, he managed to scramble up onto the trunk, relief tangible.

Tieme fell back further and further until a generous several foot separated the two elflings.

"You first," he commanded. This time the imperative was one spoken in affection rather than anger, though its speakers countenance still left no room for dispute.

Assenting, Legolas inched forwards, concentration fierce. Reaching deftly, he caught hold of a gnarled and swollen branch, locking his fingers into a vice hold. Then, in the last moment before the barrel moved free and independent of him, he sprang up onto its domed body, employing the branch for leverage, and swung skilfully up into the boughs of the tree.

Relief washed over him instantly, as tangible and glorious as summer rain. But it was short lived, for the next sounds to breech his ears turned his very blood to ice.

First came a shout, then a bodily splash, then a gurgling call asphyxiated before it gained voice.

Legolas wheeled around, startling wildly, just in time to witness Tieme's white-blond head slip beneath the water, engulfed by a white capped wave.

Undulating panic rendered him immobile, unable to think, unable to breath, unable to vouch for the reality of the moment, while wave after wave of terror and distress, constant as the tempestuous sea assailed him, each assault as raw and sickening as the first. His every sense was thrown into overdrive, marking him privy the each breath of the environment, and powerless to its sadistic intentions. Absent were the pulsations of his heart, the whispers of breath in his lungs, while present was a clarity of sight so distinct that it threw the scenario into renewing figments of terror.

An instant later, Tieme surfaced, gasping violently for air; expression a rigid convulsion of fear; open eyes blind to the world; voice mute to shouting. Wave after wave of writhing water slammed against his back, jostling and lurching him mercilessly back beneath its folds. Though the current strained against him, he was impervious to its progress, never carried forwards by its brute force, which easily surpassed any elfings strength to combat it. That was when Legolas realized; something below the surface had trapped him in a suspended position.

"TI!" It was a wrenching shout of absolute horror, infused with the painful desperation of a friend, who was faced with the prospect of losing one he loved as a brother. That single penetrating call broke the spell which held him and suddenly, he was bold.

Heading the movements of the other without conscious awareness, Legolas and Xanthus leapt as one into the swelling graphite depths, forgoing any bitter feeling that had ever passed between them and opening themselves up to unquestionable trust to rescue a companion, and above all, a friend.

The water was a shock of breath-stealing cold when fully submerged, and though the elflings were impervious to such extremities, the sensation was marked no less unpleasant by its in-effect.

Instantly, the current fortified against them, the ranks of an unceasing attack, a solid barrier to their purpose. The undulating waters buffeted them like leaves in a storm as they desperately fought to gain their bearing's. Tieme had been correct, swimming against it was a futile effort.

Steeling their courage, therefore, they sunk beneath its assault. The depths of the river were as dank, desolate and dark as appearance had cast them from above; strangely heavy and in-pliant. Somehow, less liquid than they ought to be, like trying to front crawl through mud.

Visibility was severely reduced to a two yard radius all around, but even then, what good was there in seeing blind? Their hands acquired the pallid cast of death within the murk, darting in and out of scope with each desperate stroke; leached of vitality as they moved vigorously through the silent and despondent world.

Grey reeds like lubricated tentacles moved as malevolent serpents beneath them, coiling and uncoiling, lunging and retracting, biding their time. A living carpet of dangerous intention.

It was mere seconds before they caught sight of Tieme's frantic limbs; an unnatural disturbance in the largely still landscape, though it felt like hours. Xanthus quickly ascended, breaking the surface above with a gasp, but Legolas remained submersed; observing. While Tieme's left leg moved independently and unhindered, his right was oddly strained and tautened, barely moving beyond erratic twitches.

Legolas immediately converged upon it, tracing the plant life up from its roots; feeling it rather than seeing it for its nondescript colouring was lost to the surrounding dankness. It slipped through his fingers in a greasy, sickening way.

Tieme's free leg launched a vicious defensive when Legolas' searching fingers found his ankle, the place where the reed had ensnared him. He only narrowly avoided the strike.

Lungs burning fiercely, he knew he had to work fast … but there was no knot! The tip of the reed had actually fused itself unto the stem, forging an unbreakable shackle. Vaguely he surmised that the oozing substance which covered its length must be a kind of self activated adhesive. A new panic rose within him.

Desperate for air, he broke the surface gasping, realizing only belatedly about the force of the current. A strong arm shot out and grasped the shoulder of his tunic, holding him firm.

He cast Xanthus a look of gratitude, the elder elfling using himself as a barrier to break the waves which lashed against his friends back, keeping Tieme's head above the water and looking slightly frantic. The latter was limp and exhausted in his arms.

"It's no good!" Called Legolas over the clamour of the river. "He is trapped by a reed and it has fused itself together so it cannot be undone. I need something to cut it!"

Xanthus cursed loudly, all the while mist like spray raining down over his shoulders. The crude words even in the adrenaline infused situation, surprising Legolas who had never heard them uttered before. But then an expression of revelation slowly smoothed the formers features.

"Rock fragments," he said thinking aloud, but with no volume.

"What?" The unabating cacophony of rushing water drowned out any utterance below a shout, and though Legolas saw his lips form the shape of words, he heard nothing.

"Rock fragments!" he shouted, over-exaggerating the formative shape of each letter to aid comprehension. "When the water dashes against the rocks it must fragment the outer surface, making it smooth. Some would undoubtedly become wedged in the crevices of the rock. The pieces would be sharp, almost like flints. If you could find some then maybe they would sever it." It was a long shot, but at this point, any chance was worth taking, if there was the merest hope it would yield a result. A fools hope was better than none at all.

As Tieme moaned weakly in the arms of his closest friend and a look of so penetrating melancholy darkened Xanthus' countenance, Legolas resolved to take it. "Okay, release me. I shall find them."

The restraining hand resigned him and as he rode the current, Xanthus' fervent reassurances to his friend faded away to the din of the river. The gesture touched Legolas' heart.

Deftly, he caught hold of the eccentric structure which supported the fallen Oak, arresting his course. While fleetingly imparting upon Breia, who nervously paced the length of the trunk – clearly assailed by the pangs of indecision – the nature of their efforts, he searched.

There in the centre of three spire-like points, advancing in increments was a shallow depression, no more than a bow in the surface, and there, caught between the ridges and almost indistinguishable amongst the various debris, were two razor sharp slivers!

Delighted at his luck, he eagerly snaked the slivers, and with renewed vigour implored Breia to be ready to aid them in lifting Tieme ashore, before sinking undaunted beneath the surface once more.

The dank and desolate world of the deeps was irrelevant, his entire thought bent on liberating Tieme and ferrying them all to safety. He swam heedless of all but knowing exactly where he was going, stroke after stroke until the ensnaring reed and its prey came into sight.

He wasted no time, determined that he would not surface until the bonds were cut. Gripping the sliver lightly he drew the bated edge across the tautened stem in one long, smooth stroke; feeling the fibres splinter and tear beneath his fingers. Again he attacked the reed, more violently this time, but still it did not sever.

Only upon the fourth and tangibly desperate attempt did the malicious plant life admit defeat and renounce its prey.

Xanthus knew the instant they were freed, and in a rush of affection for the elfling whom at the days institute he had regarded only with disdain, he let forth an animated cheer.

The very moment Legolas surfaced, gasping heavily for air, the elder reached for him and drew him into their partial embrace, thanking him unceasingly.

In the wake of his liberation, Tieme stirred and with weak strokes sought to maintain his own buoyancy. But it was a needless effort, for even if they had desired it, Xanthus, so haunted by the prospect of almost losing a friend, would never have consented to their release. Therefore, like a chain of fused links; strongest as one another's weaknesses, weakest as one another's strengths, they were ferried one final time down the stretch of river which from this day forth would always harbour disquieting connotations.

Breia was ready for them; using her own diminutive weight to force one of the boughs into the water.

It caught them bodily and each grasped it with all the desperation as if their life depended upon it.

"Get Tieme up! Don't worry about us," commanded Legolas, and just once, she assented without argument.

Grasping the elder elflings hands, she carefully hoisted him up into the boughs, countering his unsteady, wandering footsteps and supporting his standing weight. All the while she talked to him; gentle reassurances as they moved totteringly towards the relative safety of the bank.

Xanthus motioned for Legolas to proceed him, and upon gaining footing, he returned the gesture by offering the elder his hand as a lever. Respect, admiration, loyalty and gratitude passed between them in that single gesture.

For a while, all four elflings lay panting in the failing sun, too daunted to speak. Minds reeling, hearts pounding, hands shaking and with the last reserves of adrenalin ebbing away, each in retrospect marvelled solemnly how a simple childish feud upon the basis of jealousy had almost cost them their lives. It was utter folly.

No day passed unaffectedly and the events of each left their mark upon life. At dawn the day was filled with limitless potential; for maturity, for wisdom, for merriness and frivolity, for suffering and anguish, for celebration, for revelation, for commiseration, for learning, for orchestrated duties and trials owed to our responsibility and for the influence of chance events which belied even the most steadfast intentions. So many chances, and the price was nothing more than living.

At dusks conclude we are rewarded with development, each cycle leaving us a little taller, a little wiser, a little stronger and a little better than the previous. Our days even in idleness shaped the very fabric of our being.

And this day, more than most, altered the four companions in ways prevalent only to the soul, but marking them better in action, speech and thought. The elder learned humility, respect and the pains of allowing prejudice to rule knowing. The younger learned the advantage of courage and forgiveness and the benefits of looking beyond the superficial and accepted appearance of events for reasoning and explanation.

Just like that, friends were made of enemies, novices taught the learned a lesson and frightening experiences were beset by happy occurrences, which for the happening of the former, may not have come about.

Their world was one without grudges, without self appointed spite, contempt and bitterness, real, unsmirched and true. Just one of the things lost to maturity.

As they struck their course homeward that evening, Tieme supported between his fellows, they cared not for the admonishments and retribution their actions were owed to reward. They had each other, and that inconsequential summers day, which began like any other, marked the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship, outliving even the years of its endurance.

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_At least the came good in the end :)_

_Thank you very much for reading (apologies for its length)_

_ - One Wish Magic_


	10. Innocence Revoked

_Funnily enough, this chapter was about 90% completed before even the idea for Chapter Eight was born, but in my mind it was always the 10th chapter, and I just couldn't sway that conviction. But now after laying unfinished for around a year and a half, gathering dust, it's finally been given some love and attention and now gets its moment in the spotlight._

_S,o this one is a little different because it deals with both Aragorn, as the full grown man, and Estel, as the child._

_Hope you enjoy :)_

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Chapter Ten: Innocence revoked 

**Summary:**

_The shadows are moving and the war of the ring is nigh. Poised upon the precipice of a movement that will alter Middle-Earth forever, Aragorn is forced to confront the prospect of his greatest loss; the departure of his 'family' unto the undying lands. He comes to realize the differences which separate their races, those very differences which he had once envied, were now sealed the elves diminishing._

* * *

About three things in life seemed certain. One; the gradual process of ageing. Two; death. And three; that the prior, without interference, ultimately led to the latter.

But his own kin defied and opposed even these certainties, while he remained incarcerated by them, caught in their tenacious bonds which ushered him unerringly towards his own demise. The bitterness of mortality; the true curse of men …

The sounds of merriment drifted idly on the air; emanating enigmatically from within the Halls Of Fire, where the grand feast commemorating Frodo's conquest was being held. Resonating bass voices carried the deep-throated laughter of the Dwarves; guests to Lord Elrond's halls. The light, airy speech of the elves presided over the ceremony in song, while the hearty dialect of men, indulgent and full of bravado constituted accompanying undertones to a compelling life medley. A gathering of the last free races of Middle-Earth; unified against the threat of doom.

Aragorn's place, however, remained devoid of presence within the celebrations, for the ranger stood in vigil, concealed by the ever lengthening shadows which plagued the courtyard and the lands beyond, alike. He anticipated Elladan and Elrohir's unlooked return with a burdened heart.

Six days had elapsed since Frodo's perilous flight into Rivendell in the care of Glorfindel. Six days the hobbit had been under Lord Elrond's charge, and with each failing hour had retreated further from the wraith world which had threatened to claim him. With each new dawn he had gathered strength and well-being, the pallid tinge which had become so prominent to his complexion, receding, though his left arm still imbued an insubstantial air, remnant from the attack. Throughout he had displayed an astounding resilience to the evil he had been dealt, graduating from strength to strength, until he was finally deemed well enough to be in attendance at the feast.

In their fleeting days of comradeship, Frodo's resolute stoutness and good heart had endeared the ranger to the halfling. All of the halflings. But there was something more which drew him to Frodo, a sense of solace; both bore the cumbersome weight of a besmirched legacy.

But past ills only forewarned of an even more potent danger ahead. A spreading evil, an approaching war; whether to victory or defeat. Things which were once certain were now no more than infirm ideology starved and strangled by darkness. The war of the ring had began.

The sons of Elrond astride mighty steeds ghosted like shadows across the approaching leagues; their course a steady rhythm. Even as the ranger watched, their majestic silhouettes grew larger and more distinguishable; the only disruption in the lonely, grey wilderness which served to transpire a man's sincerest hopes into the sentiments of a blithering fool until he forsook them as worthless folly.

The very air was a bitter chill. Aragorn drew the neck of his tunic closer at the winds wailing, mournful breath. It was as if the very earth itself were lamenting. The sky was devoid of the moons light and constituted one continuous stretch of regal sable, unfathomable to the eye, its oppressive guise seemed to drive even the stars to forsake their roosts, winking sparsely like glistening, regretful tear drops.

It was quite, almost in accusation, too quite; no bird call echoed across the lands seeking answer of its mate, no small mammal skittered lightly across the grey plains. All usual signs of habitation were absent, making the weathered ranger feel brutally alone. Middel-Earth was poised upon a knife edge, one delicate erring and the precarious balance would fail.

Aragorn did not emerge from the shadows until the horses muted footfalls transpired into a lithe clatter against the cobbled courtyard, heralding their impending arrival. A mere handful of seconds elapsed before the riders, garbed in all their glory, were thrown into sharp relief.

Their faces bore a troubled countenance, worry laying heavily upon their brows. The two dapple grey stallions _Hwiin_ and _Halii_ threw back their heads restlessly, as preoccupied as their masters. Travelling cloaks whipped out in the twins wake like vapour upon the air, their midnight locks like tendrils of their speed, writhing as a leaf caught in autumns breath. They advanced purposefully with a pervading sense of urgency.

The two elves, so alike in appearance, reigned in their steeds and dismounted as smoothly and fluidly as water passing over rock.

"Hail Elladan! Hail Elrohir!" Aragorn greeted as he converged upon them, his heart momentarily gladdened at their reunion.

"Hail gwadore!" they returned in unison. A mild yet somehow expectantly resigned sentiment of surprise adorned their ethereal faces, reducing the brooding cast of their expressions for an instant, like the last rays of sun shining all the more predominantly before an eclipse.

Their meeting was like the kindling of an old unity, whose iridescent flame through lack of tending had dwindled close to decease; but now was reborn. The two elves each laid a hand upon the rangers shoulder, and he upon each of theirs; a silent exchange; an irrevocable bond; a brotherhood.

"This we do not pretend to have anticipated. Though it is befitting all the same," spoke Elladan in a momentarily airy tone. Long years had it been since Aragorn had traversed the halls of Imladris; the halls of home.

"Aye. None but the wisest and most far-seeing could have foretold the events which have bade us here. You find us embroiled in the midst of troubled times, and your return from the wilds is as unlooked for as my own."

"I fear we return with equally as troubled tidings," Elladan breathed forlornly, "for even now they mar our rejoicing."

"Come, gwadore," commanded Elrohir, "impart upon us all you know, and we shall compensate you with our sorrowful tale."

With great sombreness, Aargorn recounted the events preluding and proceeding his accompaniment of the hobbits from the village of Bree, and the nine that had stalked them thereafter. He told of the fateful night upon Weathertop, with as much ineffectualness as he could muster, and of Frodo's receipt of a grievous wound; the days that followed after, filled as they were with ominous tension. Therein dawned Glorfindel's arrival and the subsequent flight to the ford, with Frodo's life ebbing into darkness – the drowning of the ring-wraiths. All in order to bring the one ring safely to Rivendell. A feat of victorious achievement.

Elladan and Elrohir listened intently, their pensive expressions steadily degrading into a cold, hard stare. To a stranger, they would appear unaffected by such evil tidings, but Aragorn could perceive every emotion as it grew and waned.

"Troubled times indeed," agreed Elladan, "we had heard whispers, hushed mutterings among the trees; '_a great evil draws nigh._' This however, we had not dared to suspect. These are grave tidings indeed, and ours bare not the modicum of hope you evidently and readily search for -"

" - Nay, rather the truth you would wish to forsake," concluded Elrohir.

"I know of what it is you speak," breathed Aragorn. A cold contagion spread inside of him; encapsulating his heart in ice, before progressing to choke the very air from his lungs by its barren violence.

"They remain, Aragorn. The Nine. Weakened and depleted; yes. Their mortal steeds perished in the ford, but such magic cannot claim them. They endure, full of renewed malice." Elladan's tone was as bitter and melancholy as the grass lands upon a mid-winters night.

"It is as I had guessed," confessed the ranger with resignation, "but pray tell, this evil news was surely not the inceptive reason for your return …"

"Nay," acquiesced Elrohir forlornly, "such tidings were gained only _through_ our return, and were like the wave cap upon a sea of troubles. The tidings we come baring perhaps bode an even greater ill. Long and far have we traversed in the lands of Middle-Earth, and witnessed a great many a thing." The elf's eyes were dull stones weathering a month of heavy rains as he spoke.  
"Evil stirs in the wilds, like some long-dormant sleeper re-awakened; shadows move in open sunlight, liberated of their confines. The trees grow quite and stow away their voices, for they feel it; the evil that pollutes our lands – the earth turns putrid beneath their roots.

"Orcs emerge from the bowels of the earth; amassing in forces and numbers far surpassing any estimation. They converge like a plague upon the lands, a blight upon the free people; destroying, burning, pillaging and murdering as they go. Dark agents watch the main roadways like harbingers of death, screeching echoes into the night. And each now dawn brings with it less hope than the previous.

"Aragorn, Isenguard flames like a torch set into its bracket, and all that was once good and pure now lies barren, given over to the pits of molten fire. Saruman's restless mind contemplates evil deeds. He is breeding orcs with elves and men, he is creating an army, one of sole purpose. These new devilry beasts can travel a great distance at speed, even in sunlight. They are terrible adversaries. URUK HAI he dubs them."

"Simultaneously, evil crawls back into the black lands of Mordor, heeding its silent call. Gondor grows ever more wary in its shadow. Things have now been set in motion which cannot be undone. We cannot avoid this war, it idles upon our very doorstep, it shall be the last and greatest, consuming every predecessor in darkness. The only option we have left to us now is choice."

A disconsolate silence prevailed Elrohir's words, a chocking void which purloined each breath with savage brutality. The frigid air seemed to grow more violent and hurtful against the humans exposed skin; though Aragorn barely felt the sting. He was numb with emotion.

"Sobering words indeed," he managed finally, grave in tone.

"Regrettably so."

Aragorn was pervaded by a sensation akin to drowning, further and further he fell into the gaping maw of darkness, the last rays of light for which he was striving fading and retreating into nothing above, as he was crushed by the undulating void.

The twins return had left him much to ponder within the recess' of his mind, and as he walked in solitude through the arched corridors – his brothers having retired to their chambers to recuperate after many a month sleeping under the stars - it was with a weary and distracted gait, and a countenance to match.

From a bitter-sweet reunion to the mirthful frivolity of celebration, such a paradox was disconcerting upon its own merit, but what unsettled him further was the disjointed nature and rapid succession of his thoughts. _Imladris_ imbued an air of serenity and clarity, it was a place where worries were too easily pacified with solutions that at the instant of conception appear to reside within the realm of the possible, but upon departure from their birthplace suddenly alter to challenge their own allegiance.

Perhaps it was his own mind which lay at fault, perhaps it was that and that alone which erected the very barriers he deemed impassable; depleted the conviction of the possible and deemed it adverse.

As it remained, with the passing minutes his moroseness seemed to dissipate, resolve into virtue. Almost against his knowledge and permission something stirred in him anew. It wasn't hope, rather a sense of vigorous determination, a drive towards action, or less he resign himself to uselessness. Maybe this war would not be won before it began. A thought as encouraging as any in the absence of assurance.

However, he could not entirely quell the doubts which lingered like starving wolves in the back of his mind. Men's unenviable state; they were always torn.

The melody of laughter and merriment commandeered the bulk of his attention as he approached the Halls Of Fire, liberating his mind from its morose stupor. He could hear the delightful tones of pleasurable conversation, interspersed with snatches of song and poetry. Smell the aroma of pine-wood burning in the hearth; its sweet perfume welcoming him to the amass of elation. Stepping into the grand chamber was like straying into a dream, a world without evil, without sorrow. The shadow did not yet wax over Rivendell; here was hope, something to fight for, something which should be preserved, even if all the lands failed around it. They say home is where the heart dwells, and from this haven, the rangers would never truly depart.

His late arrival received no attention from the present company, each party too engaged in their individual pursuits. Out of well-practised habit, his gaze swept the halls interior and occupancy. It fell almost immediately upon the face he necessitated to glimpse; Lord Elrond's.

The elf lord sat by the fireside, wreathed in intermittent snatches of shadow and ambiance, like an august eagle warming himself in the dawns light. Full of wisdom and deadly precision, equally awe-inspiring and foreboding, more regal and untouchable than the oldest and greatest kings of men. And at his side: the Lady Arwen.

Aragorn's heart beat a little more fervently as his gaze lingered a fraction longer than an instant upon her, almost humming in ode to his love for her. In her presence he felt completed, whole, so that when they parted, he went away a shadow of a man, devoid of his most integral piece. He returned his regard to his foster father.

The elf lords expression was distant and pensive, as if he were deeply troubled. Worry darkened the chiselled features. There was no question of him not knowing the regrettable tidings his sons had brought from afar, for Aragorn could distinguish the same brooding melancholy of his own thoughts represented upon the ageless face. However, there was something more besides. His observations offered no comfort, not that they had professed any.

Slowly, he progressed towards the centre-most point of the room, seeking distractable engagement until such a time as the elf lord acquiesced conversation. But like an all too willing lapse of independent character, his eager gaze could not fail to regard her once again; the Evenstar of her people. Bathed in a dream of white she smiled, the gesture full of meaning and inclined her head towards him in an affectionate, emphatic greeting. He had never seen another so beautiful and ethereal as she, her smile was akin to the dawning of the world.

He returned the gesture, infusing it with a marked respect as protocol demanded, an adoring smile alighting upon his lips in response to hers, ere he dropped his gaze and weaved through the ranks of the congregation, each soul oblivious to the undying love which had passed between the man and elf maiden. A pleasant fervour coursed through the ranger, leaving him in equal parts both extremes.

Through the parting throngs he glimpsed his stout comrades and old friend. The three companions conversed expressionatly within the alcove of a distant corner, appearing somewhat out of place in the general festivities, but integral to their own constitutional party. They paid little heed to the celebrations surrounding them, though they were indeed the honorary guests. Watching them for a handful of minutes Aragorn soon deemed that a topic of such enthusiasm and gesticulation could only lay within the boundaries of their homeland. With a warm smile, which bespoke visions of his own younger-years, he converged upon them.

So engrossed were they in conversation that at first they remained entirely ignorant of his approach. Fleeting minutes elapsed as he stood unmoving in their shadow, a fond smile smoothing his rugged countenance as he looked affectionately down upon them. Suddenly, Bilbo looked up.

"Ah, there you are at last Dunadan!" he cried delightedly, though in the same words still managing to chastise the ranger for his tardiness.

Aragorn inclined his head in greeting, his eyes of their own violation mapping the elder hobbit's so altered features, as was becoming habitual, both expecting and dreading that they had further deteriorated from the passage of one day into the next. They had not, and they did not, but not even this certainty could stall his repetitive analysis. Bilbo's unwitting possession of the one ring had stemmed the ravages of time, years failed like minutes, leaving no imprint of age upon his skin. But then as the ring had passed to Frodo and its impulsive loyalty shifted; age it seemed had came on swift wings to the wizened hobbit.

What was better then? To live and surpass ones greatest years in unfaltering youth, only to have it stolen away when ones greatest need arose and be left resigned to the brutality of deteriorations double-edged strike? Or to live a life as nature implies, facing always age and death with no redemption from either? The answer was one beyond comprehension, beyond certainty. Every man wanted more beyond what he could attain.

Aragorn's own lifetime far exceeded that of lesser men, the blood of Numenor flowed within his veins, though much diluted. What would be his choice? His count of years shied towards 87, though he felt barely a day beyond early manhood. But all progressed to a single, ultimate end; for nothing could endure forever, and he knew whether by war, fell sword strike, malady or old age, he would one day meet his demise. Death was the only certainty.

"Strider!" Frodo exulted, also turning in evident surprise to regard the weather-worn ranger. "You seem to have a lot of names."

"Well _Strider_ is one that I haven't heard before, anyway," said Bilbo with mild amusement. Turning to Frodo, he enquired; "What do you call him that for?"

"They call me that in Bree," Aragorn enlightened with a laugh, which though not false, lacked profundity enough to combat the shadows of his fey mood which endured like tendrils of smoke, impervious to his intention. Strange how a nickname coined in mockery became no less than a term of endearment when used by his diminutive friends. Their kind hearts and homely optimism withdrew all the poison from the term. "And that was how I was introduced to him."

"And why do you call him Dunadan?" Enquired Frodo in return, a vague semblance of memory seemed to light his eyes for an instant before dwindling to curiosity.

"_The_ Dunadan," corrected Bilbo lightly. "He is often called that here. But I thought you knew Elvish enough at least to know _dunadan_: Man of the West, Numenorean." So much expected. So little possessed. So reluctant.

"But this is no time for lessons!" admonished Bilbo as if the very request had been observed and denied only with the greatest reserve.

With a tone feigning nonchalance and piercing eyes brimming with unrestrained curiosity, he turned to Aragorn and asked; "Where have you been my friend? Why weren't you at the feast?" And then, in the guise of an insignificant afterthought, which implied so much more, added; "The Lady Arwen was there."

Aragorn's heart ached in longing for a gamut of regrets, not least for defecting an opportunity to sit in her presence and observe the customs of mirth, therefore, he answered gravely; "I know. But often I must put mirth aside. Elladan and Elrohir have returned out of the wild unlooked for, and they had tidings I wished to hear at once." Though he did not overtly offer one, the rangers tone applied an apology.

"Well, my dear fellow," said Bilbo evidently arriving at the point of the matter, rubbing his hand together in eager anticipation, "now you've heard the news, can't you spare me a moment? I want your help in something urgent. Elrond says this song of mine is to be finished before the end of the evening, and I am stuck. Let's go off into a corner and polish it up!" How anyone could have found the heart to deny his passion was incomprehensible.

Keen on the prospect of the task, Aragorn gave an eager smile. "Come then! Let me hear it!"

The two old friends departed from the company of their fellows, converging upon a grandly embellished writing desk, comfortably situated near the hearth. Bilbo produced from within the breast-pocket of his over-jacket a scroll of delicately folded parchment, and with aged though nimble fingers, smoothed it flat against the surface of mahogany wood.

The fire laughed a woody chortle beside them, cloaking both man and hobbit in its ambient glow; shrouding one half of their faces in shadow as if it picked out the very virtue and discrepancy of their souls and represented them to the world. The writhing flamed encapsulated them with warming hands held at arms length.

Aragorn traced the lettering with an accustoming glance, it having been many years since he had last had the pleasure to read such a hand, rediscovering and familiarising himself with each runes precise angles and unique depiction. It possessed not the level of fluid calligraphy favoured and practised by the elves, and not quite the blunt relevance observed by the hand of man. Nay, it lay somewhere in-between, but at the same time, completely and solely unique.

Bilbo, following the rangers gaze, gave a small laugh that was both solemn and wry. His words were not just idle thoughts, though that was how he represented them, they were fear.

"My old mind remembers things spanning a century back, but it cannot remember word for word its own creation." Here he sighed.

"There are none who can boast any different, creation is nothing but the capture of fleeting thoughts," Aragorn answered distantly, well aware of the nature of their discussion and endeavouring to head it off. No-one was exempt from forgetting, those things which one wished to retain, frittered away piece by piece like the sands of time until all that was left was a poor representation of memory, like a child attempting to reproduce the work of an artist. While those things that one wishes they could forget seemed to linger, lurking in the shadows just beyond reason, haunting glimpses of misery. He broke free of this morbid musing, the likes of which could be saved for another night.

Leaning back in his chair and extracting his pipe he gazed levelly at the hobbit, intrigued. He said not a word, his expression inscrutable and stoic. Bilbo shifted impatiently before, after a reasonable pause, prompting;

"Come now, do not keep me in suspense dear friend! What do you propose?"

"I propose that you do not require my assistance. What you have written and what you intend to write came and will come again from the heart, and that is not something which I will readily tamper with. You already know all that you will do, what you will write and how you will deliver it, you are just not listening hard enough to hear. A whisper is only heard by those who are prepared to listen for it."

"Do you know Dunadan, this place agrees with you," grumbled Bilbo good naturedly, "you speak in as many riddles as the elves.

"Perhaps so," Aragorn permitted, chuckling slighty. Then his tone hardened somewhat, a light of admonishment smouldering in the grey cloud-banks of his eyes, "Coincidently, if you possess the bare faced cheek to make verses about Earendil in the House of Elrond, then that is most certainly your affair, but I would caution you against it." The slight steeliness that Bilbo detected made him think that the ranger judged this all to be above his head.

Earendil. The second union of the Eldar and Edain, separated from his love and bound evermore to sail the sky's. Was that to be Aragorn's own fate? Forever apart from the one whom he loved.

Elrond, his great descendant; Peredhil; half-elven. With them lay a choice extended to no other. Sail to the undying lands with their kin, or else remain in Middle-Earth, so forsaking immorality. A dual life, two destinies of the same fate. That very decision lay near at hand, which path would his kindred elect to pursue? Uncertainty danced in the arms of choice, swaying in an empty hall; and while the sweet melancholic music whispered hauntingly in time with their feet, there existed no soul present to hear it.

Times like these drove a person to the precipice of loneliness, teased him into madness by the allure of visionary bygones like beacons of better times, so much more embellished by the barren emptiness of the present. Such times made enemies of friends and suspects of acquaintances. Resigned each day to the cast of darkest night, while everything that was good and pure faded, like the dying embers of a heart-sick fire. Loss, it was so much more than a word, so much more than a feeling.

Fellowship, courage and choice in the face of adversity were now the only weapons left to those who opposed this coming war. Shields would be splintered, swords would be broken, and lives smote out like dying stars in a blood red sky. The time of the elves was ending.

"However," said the ranger, arching an eyebrow and regarding Bilbo with an appraising glance, "If you are willing, I do have but one addition ..."

The symphonic melody diminiuendoed, affording the chamber a new tenor of conversation. The elves waited expectantly for the regaling of Bilbo's song; charged with the task of distinguishing which parts belonged to the hobbit and which to the man.

The hall grew quite; the respect Bilbo commanded far surpassing his standing in The Shire, rumours of gold and innumerable riches aside. The most endearing sense of awe seemed to envelop his kinsmen, as if in this light, they saw the old hobbit as never before.

Frodo's smile was exuberant as he regarded his uncle – honoured in the house of wisdom – though it was clearly drawn by surprise, his eyes alight with fierce pride and affection. Sam stared, mouth agape, transfixed by the scene which unfolded before his eyes, appearing frozen in such a comical manner as minute after minute passed without alteration. For a moment he seemed to collect himself, but another glance cast around the hall and its amassed congregation, who were all poised to hear one hobbit speak, only evoked the same response. Pippin, equally astounded, was persistently endeavouring to whisper such sentiments of shock to Merry, though never getting further than the older hobbit's name for the latter's insistent shushing, eager as he was to hear Bilbo's rendition.

This tender scene brought to Aargorn's lips a smile and a whisper of laugher, smoothing the almost omnipresent frown from his careworn and weathered face for a fleeting moment. He felt young again watching them.

Bilbo began in a soft, royal tone. The song was regaled in the typical hobbit fashion, a perfect paradox in the great elven halls. A tongue so old and new, so familiar and vague uttered syllables of life transmuted into verse. It lacked the grandeur and ethereal essence of elvish songs; the sombre profundity, the irrevocable tenderness and iridescent beauty painted by their tongues almost un-replicable. But that mattered not.

It imbued within its harmony a way of living; undisturbed, unrushed and unadventurous, though these terms hardly applied to Bilbo. It was laced throughout with undertones of frivolity, liveliness, serenity, contentment, hospitality and celebration. It seemed to envelop the listener in visionary illusions of comfort, which would dissipate even the very darkest instants of night. It soothed the senses and stirred the mind so that each syllable ghosted like the whisper of a minute, mapping out a lifetime. Close your eyes for but an instant and nothing else existed.

Ere long, a slow and pensive melody was stuck up by the elven minstrels, matching Bilbo's every rise and fall of voice as if they were long familiar with his work. It sung of hardship, sacrifice, love, loss and adventure.

Silent as shadow advancing over the plane, Aragorn moved through the assembly. She watched him coming, though always without fully regarding him. Her ageless face inscrutable.

Elrond sat like the stone-cast figure of a monarch, his expression remaining residually impassive; distant and troubled. Aragorn's steps faltered but a fraction, not even age brought immunity from the disquiet evoked by seeing the mighty shaken. No good soul could look upon his countenance without affect, for he was sorrow. However, only those acquainted with the elf lord would see as Aragorn saw; the roiling, tumultuous seas of emotion and indecision hidden beneath the amber cast of a calm horizon.

He converged upon her, the Evenstar of her people. Her lustrous, raven locks spilled like rippling water down her back, her porcelain skin, as soft and pale as moonlight, radiating a faint opalescent glow in the half darkness. The beauty of her wise, doleful eyes framed by a fan of long, curved lashes, her lips carved by a master craftsmen himself. He could draw her features in the dark, for so long had he designed to fix their exact angles and contours within the regions of his memory, but even that intensive study proved lacking in comparison to reality.

Bowing his head in a mark of respect, he gently took one of her smooth hands in the roughened, callused cradle of his own, her long, delicate fingers entwined with his, crude comparisons. Aragorn brought her hand to her lips, kissing it once, tenderly, though his eyes never left her face.

"My Lady," he whispered, the warmth of his breath caressing her skin.

Arwen did not speak, but her smile uttered a thousand syllables more beautiful than words. With her free hand, she traced the contours of his jawline, sensing as she did, the tension which he emanated, thaw as he subconsciously sank into her touch.

"Long years has it been since I last lay eyes upon your face," she smiled demurely, "though the time seems shorter to I than you. And here as I now regard you I see it changed." She mapped the very planes of his cheeks, the expression in his eyes, the way the light flickered in their sincerity. Finding all that she remembered and kept close to her heart cast there.

"You see it aged."

"Nay," the syllable was uttered almost as a breath, loving, reassuring, binding, "the changes of which I speak are born from no amass of years. Instead they tell of encumbrance and burden. You did not then bare the troubles you do now."

Seeing he was about to dissent, she preempted him by laying a tall, thin finger upon his smooth lips, whispering a single implore; '_Lasto!_' Graciously, he assented. In that moment, the world around them would have faded out of knowledge, if it hadn't already been erased.

"Your eyes are blinded by the incarceration of your expectations. They do nothing more than fulfil your self certified prophecy; seeing in your visage only what you expect them to see and not what is truly there to be seen."

As she spoke, her fingers traced a trail from the contours of his lips to the pinnacle of his cheekbones and thence eclipsed the grey orbs, so that he could do nothing more than listen blindly to her words. She leaned in close to him, relishing the proximity that was both so familiar and so novel.

"Life has not been kind to you, Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur, and there is yet more hardship to come. You face a great evil, but you will defeat it, past mistakes are not yours to bare. Their fate is not your own. If you trust in nothing else, then trust your heart, for it will lead you always back home, to me, just as mine wanders the wilds at your side." Then, brushing her lips smoothly against his, in an instant he wanted to live in forever, she breathed; "Age is but a concept of mind."

Aragorn smiled in spite of himself, a smile that spoke love, passion, tenderness and devotion.

"Aye, long years have passed, and while you as ever speak wisdom, it appears I speak folly."

"Nay," she contradicted him proudly, releasing him from his world of darkness, "You speak with a true heart, and the decorum of a nobleman, you speak with the sincerity of your people and an air of prevalence which leaves any unable to doubt you, _Lord_ Aragorn."

He gave an uncharacteristically scoffing laugh, which seemed only to strengthen her conviction in lieu of his scarcity. Such an address hardly befitted the slightly roguish and weather-worn ranger, whose life, for the most part, existed among the wilds; he was beckoned by the call of the wind, the free whisper of the air, the allure of introspective solitude, broken only by the song and activity of birds, and the inconsequential traversing of animals in their tiered structure of fate. Answerable to none. Free and alive.

What did heritage matter when it tread a different path? For what did expectation count, when the one it concerned shunned its sentiments long ago? It existed like two roads laid out before his feet, the choice between preordainment and freedom, between duty and happiness. Always he kept in sight the designed road – like a distant sunset embracing the horizon, like a threat waiting to ensnare him as soon as his vigilance lapsed – but never veering close enough to walk its course.

"Your day shall come, Aragorn, to the benefit of many. You shall step from the shadows of anguish and war and suffering, and you shall usher in an age of peace," she said with delicate wisdom.

His smile faltered, like the hope of the weary. To doubt another, when they deserved nothing less than unabridged faith was to fell a kingdom in a single strike, but what about to doubt oneself? He knew what had to be done; it was time to cast aside the ranger and become the man he was destined to be, only … he was afraid. Hesitant to take up his mark in a game of crude politics. A deep-rooted sense of inadequacy, which he had long since quelled within him, burst forth with all the force of a river shattering its damn.

"Why do you appear so disheartened?" she asked softly, her voice a brush of silk. Delicately she cupped his chin, roughened as it was with the fine bristles of stubble which so complimented his charm, and raised his downcast eyes level with her own.

Her scent swirled around him in enticing tendrils; a plethora of springs finest blossom paired with the aroma of an open sea. It was homely, it was reassuring, it was intoxicating. His heart skipped a beat, and dizzy with its allure, it enveloped him like the sweetest of dreams. Distance indeed made the heart grow fonder, it also addled the mind.

"Come, rejoice! Let your heart be gladdened. Hope still remains while there are those left to fight for it. You _are_ hope, _Estel." _Her gaze held his, reading the very deepest regions of his soul, speaking words unfathomable.

Then, slowly, she drew towards him, fingers interlaced in an eternal engagement, insufferable to parting after so long spent in absence. He could feel her warm breath against his face, caressing his skin like the heat of summer. Closer. Inches. Centimetres. Millimetres. Less … their parted lips met. Silk upon Satan. Delicate upon rough. They moved in harmony, sculpted solely for the fit of one another's, in a gesture that was both as beautiful as the first springs flower and as loving as summers warm embrace.

Whether it was the restoration of his sight, which adorned it with such monument or something else entirely he did not know, but this kiss was a stranger to its subservient predecessor. It was a kiss of longing, and desperation and love, but also of resistance and segregation and responsibility which would again ere long see them parted. It was bitter-sweet, all that love should be, and all that the present denied.

Slowly, and almost unwillingly, the two drew apart, Arwen's lips lingering upon his for a fractionate second. Joyous hearts footing an energetic dance, they each drew in a breath; the air sweeter, more sensuous than before, and yet less in comparison.

"_I _do not doubt you," she whispered with unshakable conviction. Wordlessly, her conceded. Only time would tell.

They kept each others company throughout Bilbo's rendition, the sound, upon their surrender to it, enveloping them in the waves and folds of history, told as never before. Their hands remained clasped, fingers fitted; their beings unified after such a long time left incomplete.

The inspired melody diminished, Bilbo's song dwindling; leaving suspended in its wake a beautiful, haunting note which lingered in the air. With one final whispered syllable, Bilbo took his bow.

Applause erupted amidst his congregation of listeners, which had swelled with the passage of each verse to surround him, their faces illustrious beacons before him. The refined, distinguished hands of the elves, the hearty enthusiasm within the gesture of men and the thunderous claps of the dwarves, like the booming reverberations of a rockfall deep underground; all working in unison. Together as one.

Frodo, after teetering upon the precipice of sleep at Bilbo's inception, was now fully attentive, applauding and beaming animatedly along with the rest of the assembly. Sam, however, had succumbed to the call of dreams; his face carefree and peaceful as someone embroiled in the midst of serenity, his mouth comically slack.

Meanwhile, Merry and Pippin, raised high upon stools, and thereby almost equalling the heigh of their free-standing counterparts, cheered the most vigorously.

The Hall's, like their presider, emanated a healing air. Those unaccustomed to to such unspoiled purity found their efforts to resit its peaceable affects, futile. Here worry seemed as inconsequential and insubstantial as ripples upon the ocean on a moonless night. Troubles were soothed like a tumultuous wind bowing to the power of the sun. The prancing flames of eternal fire, unconsumed within the hearth, seemed to penetrate and warm the very soul, endear the heart and breath hope into those devoid of it. Here peace, clarity and serenity reigned, even if the rest of Middle-Earth fell to a foul and nameless shadow.

Amidst the applause prevailed Lindir's jovial tenor, exulting merrily; "Now we had better have it again!" A rippling mummer of assent proceeded.

Bilbo, clambering stiffly down from his improvised pedestal, bowed humbly in decline. "I am flattered Lindir," he intoned with glowing sincerity, "but it would be far too tiring to repeat it all." Indeed a vague cast of fatigue seemed to encroach and draw upon his lined face, further ravaging it. His necessity for declination seemed almost to pain him.

"Not too tiring for you!" chorused three elves simultaneously, their light-hearted mockery punctuated with laughter. This bold statement impressed upon the four remaining hobbits a sneaking suspicion that such theatrics on their elders part had been observed many times prior, and then curtailed once the demand for a further regaling swelled sufficiently. But this time, his fatigue was no whimsical performance, and Bilbo did not yield. "You know you never tire of reciting your own verses. But really, we cannot answer your question at one hearing!"

"What!" snorted Bilbo, not yet too diminished for banter and causing a few of the lighter hearted elves to burst forth in peals of mirth once again at his show of astound. "You cannot tell which parts were mine and which parts were the Dunadan's?"

"It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals," justified Lindir amusedly.

While the elvish style of poetry and song remained practically unaltered, that of mortals was as changeable as the sea, given to flighty persuasions and passing fashion, absent of any distinguishing features it both mimicked and opposed. Habits formed and imbued in one generation could be quashed in the next, or else pass out of memory. Therefore, all mortal styles encompassed subtle undertones reminiscent of one another woven into the fabric of their composition.

"None-sense Lindir," snorted Bilbo in light-hearted denouncement. "If you can't distinguish between a man and a hobbit, your judgement is poorer than I imagined. They're as different as peas and apples."

"Maybe," countered Lindir. "To sheep other sheep no doubt appear different." He laughed richly feeling he had the hobbit beaten, "or to shepherds. But mortals have not been our study. We have other business."

Indulging no further in the witty repartee of the elves, and conceding to his weariness, Bilbo renounced his opposition; "I won't argue with you. I am sleepy after to much music and singing. I'll leave you to guess if you want to."

The elder hobbit converged upon his nephew and fellow kinsmen, each of their faces equally animated with the same radiant smile, which dimpled their rounded cheeks, save for Samwise, who slumbered peacefully at Frodo's side, blissfully unaware. Bilbo took up seat upon his dear nephews other; and thus ensured a favourable conversation.

Aragorn watched their exchange from afar, retaining his seat at the Lady Arwen's side. For a moment, he was less than a man and so much more than a presence; a visiting party in the lives and affairs of others as he watched the hobbit's lips move. He read their subtle shapes and contours with with a masterful perception, seeing words rather than hearing them. Meanwhile, Arwen observed him with profound consideration, as if he encapsulated her sole attraction within the confines of this world of colour, movement and song, reading him deeper than any mind dared comprehend.

At the mention of his name, and Bilbo's off-hand comment, a smile alighted upon the rangers lips, the old hobbit did not miss a trick. Arwen's lips too curved into an ageless smile, his happiness the very seat of her own.

As the atmosphere in the Halls of Fire transitioned into a state of calm contemplation, pre-empting slumber, the minstrels struck up a new melody; a beautiful, heartfelt harmony which played out like the first spring morn upon the shivering lands, and awakened an untameable yearning; diffusing each soul with such immeasurable gladness and regret that all who heard it were stirred.

"For one so small, he has made such a great impression upon us all," observed Arwen in a soft, pensive undertone, her gaze mirroring his.

"Aye. Curious creatures, hobbits." Aragorn emitted a rich, warm laugh, which was as much fond as it was rough.

"The symmetry, of course, is equally undeniable." She cast her gaze upon the abruptly stricken countenance, knowing what weight her words bore, but resolute in their deliverance. All traces of laughter had faded, leaving in its wake a myriad of enigmatic emotions. Her fingers traced the planes of his rough, crude-cut hands, which were of epitome craftsmanship to her.

"Your fates are interlinked, twined as age old roots of a tree. A great many dangers you shadow in their coming, and a great many stalk you from behind, but take heart. You are the beacon of hope for your people in this approaching night, yet your light is shy and unwilling, unrepresentative of your triumphs, just as Frodos'. Deep down, you both know what must be done, yet you are afraid. Modesty is an admirable attribute, but not when it blindly belies truth. Both of your efforts in this war will ultimately depend upon the triumphs of one another. You walk as two figures out of the very recesses of memory, when common knowledge has all but resigned you to extinction. The legacy which you both bare will outlive fathomless generations, you face a terrible evil, but you shall defeat it. There are difficult decisions to make upon the road ahead, but approach them with wisdom and do not lose faith, even if the correct path is fraught with sorrow. Then, one day, as the dust of battle settles, Gondor will welcome home it's king, and Middle-Earth, the dawning of a new age of peace."

Ere long, Bilbo and Frodo alighted and took their silent leave from the hall, the ever doting and loyal Sam still lost to the peaceful folds of slumber in the corner of the settle.

Halting momentarily in the centre of the vast, stone-cast archway, which partitioned the Halls of Fire from the subsequent assembly hall, Frodo, with an almost regretful air, regarded, as if from a great distance, the waning celebrations. The hour growing early and late as one. He offered the fine hall one last, lingering gaze, drinking in the very nectar of its essence, abruptly adverse to abstaining from its embrace.

Without call for and seemingly of its own accord, his wistful gaze fell and rested thereupon the trio of dark-haired figures, each commanding an individual royal grace.

Lord Elrond sat tall, imposing and majestic in equal measure, the very heart of his brethren. His ageless and ethereal aura drawing Frodo's gaze and immediate attention as light draws months to a flame. His chair was pulled close to the fire, despite the fact that elves were impervious to the extremities, and the writhing light played upon the sharp angles of his face, both accentuating and diluting the indecisive shadows in the same effort. The Elf Lord never returned his gaze, however, and after a brief moment or two, Frodo finally felt he could look away, as if some peculiar spell had been severed.

Next his gaze befell Strider, who stood resolutely beside the Lady Arwen, his head bowed low in conversation. Surprised, Frodo wondered at their proximity and air, there was something which passed between them that no other would understand. They were like an ageless riddle, wrapped inside an enigma, beautiful but indefinable.

Then, quite unexpectedly, bridging the distance of the vast hall, steady, uninterrupted and immobilizing, the Lady Arwen's gaze pieced him, held his own with a mild intensity which seemed to know too much within the hearts of mortals. For an instant it seemed that all his secrets were laid bare, his hopes, his fears. Fleeting in nature, and then it was over.

Bilbo came to stand once again at Frodo's side, looking out beyond the maw of the hall. The music grew steadily louder, fluctuating in temperament once again as a quartet of elven voices combined in harmony; intertwining, complimenting and accentuating. The worlds greatest wonder captured in song;

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel_

_Silivren penna miriel_

_O menel aglar elenath!_

The elderly hobbit listened appreciatively, the enchanting syllables and rich music speaking a language of their own. Drawing in one final breath, as if in testament to what felt like the purest, most untainted air, which was in itself like oxygenated merriment, he sighed in contentment. Then misinterpreting the nature of Frodo's evident confusion, he said in a tone of fondness; "It is a song to Elbereth. They will sing that, and other songs of the Blessed Realm, many times tonight. Come on!" And here he offered Frodo's tunic sleeve a small tug, which met with no resistance.

Frodo allowed himself to be led away from the festivities, his heart still giddy to be in his uncles company once again after such a lengthy separation. At times he had feared he would never see dear old Bilbo again; upon Weathertop when the Morgal blade pieced his shoulder being the most prominent. But yet here, against all odds they were reunited. Maybe, given the choice he would stay, remain by Bilbo's side for a little while at least before returning home. He had done what he had set out to do, bring the ring to Rivendell, his part in this tale was now finally at an end.

With each consecutive step, the haunting melody dwindled, growing into less than a whisper before fading altogether.

The two hobbits walked side by side in a comfortable silence, content with company alone, disregarding conversation for the moment. Further and further their shadows retreated as they passed each mounted bracket; diminutive figures in the grand, august passageway.

Back within the Halls of Fire, the elven minstrels ended their honorary ode and attuned once again to an air of alteration. Hearty celebration transcended into the indulgent sentiments of remembrance.

Those unaccustomed to the potently healing air which pervaded the Last Homely House, began to fall to the irresistible allure of contented weariness, which bade desire to rest in the cradle of sleep. Long had they fought its calling, but now they succumbed, abandoning all resolve and reason to resist. In small numbers they took their leave, men, dwarves, Samwise; who looked positively stricken at having lost sight of his master, and with good grace hurried off to rectify his failing.

Those too wearied to stand, but too engrossed and captivated to retire simply took up sanctuary upon the settles, where they remained with expressions of feigned attentiveness, but which soon degraded into the slack constitution of peaceful slumber. The longing music enveloping and embracing them as a dream.

Here, time was an enigma. In the world of the immortal, the unchanging it seemed to lose all significance. Days could pass like prolific minutes, many in abundance or minutes like the length of weeks, far surpassing need. Neither night nor day were in any haste to begin or end, but yet eternally, conformationally they passed one by one in a pre-emptive cycle. Time was an unspecified quantity, an interpretative impression.

Quite suddenly, though not entirely unexpectedly, Lord Elrond rose, his midnight blue robes flailing around him as petals would jostle in a breeze. He offered Arwen and Aragorn a brief bow, more in affection then decorum and then made his exit. A figure of authority, a figure of respect.

Aragorn watched him go, intentions already founded. His heart ached for the consolation offered by the elf who he had once loved as a father, weighed now as it was, by the quiet sorrow and uncertainty of his people.

The solemn soliloquy of beautiful anguish, persisted unperturbed in the Elf Lord's absence.

Several agonizing minutes elapsed, however, before the ranger alighted, exuding a purposeful manner. He offered his fair companion and keeper of his heart a bow of deepest respect, before taking up her hand in one final gesture and intoning tenderly;

"By your leave, my lady, until the new light of dawn sees us together again." It was a promise.

"Until then," she pledged, a smooth inclination of her head, returning the respect he was due. Though she executed such a formality with unfailing decorum, there was, like a repressed sea, the fire of longing dancing in her farseeing eyes. A symmetry depiction of his own. Their touch lingered, neither willing to renounce the hold of the other.

He left her with regret burning a brand into his soul.

The silent grace of _Imladris'_ hallways appeared shadowed to his eyes after the ambient vibrancy which had prevailed the Halls of Fire. The emptiness and silence also offered a stark contrast; a disquieting void in the lands of war.

The tread of his path was instinctual, once habitual. Arriving at the Elf Lord's study he hesitated fractionally; his outstretched palm raising to caress the embossed depiction carved into the central reservation of the birch-wood door.

The august eagle perched atop his majestic roost, wings spread wide in a bold, powerful show. Aragorn smiled, though the world around him and he himself had changed, this image from his boyhood had suffered no alteration – though the same could not be said for his perception of it. While in his youth, he had saw in it only the grandeur and presence of the elf lord; the ability and responsibility to protect, love and care. Now he also glimpsed the wisdom prevalent in set of the creatures eyes; the gladness and sorrow which came in equal measures to a ruler in the arch of its brow; the danger, precision and keenness of a scholar riled in the curve of its beak; and the respect, command and imposition with which the depiction had been carved.

In the reprieve of of his reminiscence, he had all but forgotten his original intention, until the distinguished baritone called with reserved amusement;

"Enter Aragorn, son of Arathon."

With an air of folly in the face of one much wiser than himself, and who already knew with piercing alacrity the nature of what you were about to divulge even before you undertook the action, Aragorn pushed aside the fortified door. Entering only to find that the chamber into which he had been invited was perfectly devoid of habitation.

His brow creased a fraction and then smoothed as he registered the barely perceptible movements of the Ivory drapes, which partitioned the chamber from the spacious balcony without.

The fall of his steps resounded uncommonly loudly even to his own ears as converged upon a slender breach in the silken wall. He laughed in earnest, for a moment feeling like a boy again.

Emerging through the drapery he beheld the elf lord; his gaze trained upon the sable sky. The same black expanse that Aragorn had dredged for answers just hours previous. Elrond's fingers were splayed wide upon the cold stone edging, and the folds of his robes whispered idly in the breeze.

"I wondered how long I would wait before you came to me," he laughed. A laugh as sincere as one without amusement could muster. "I glimpsed within your own eyes the reflection of mine."

Aragorn approached him slowly, for seldom here did things require or respond to haste, until he was standing at his foster fathers side, gazing up into the same patch of indifferent sky; the cloak which excluded the stars. He knew what Elrond was thinking, for they were the same thoughts which troubled his mind.

"You are, I presume, aware of your sons unlooked for return …" It was neither a question nor an affirmation, nothing more than a statement of truth between two parties.

Elrond inclined his head, a sharp, distracted movement, his eyes never leaving the oppressive blackness.

"And the unfavourable tiding they bare with heavy hearts …" Again the concise gesture, which spoke of deeper thought.

A familiar silence descended. Man and Elf side by side in a common understanding. A relationship born, altered and cemented in a plethora of unlikely chances.

Like the cut of ice, a bitter wind shrieked from the east, stinging like the bite of a sword. Aragorn drew his silvery cloak tighter around him in attempt to stave off its assail. He shivered in its wake, fully appreciating for the first time since his emergence, just how the cold had seeped into his bones. His neck prickled and another violent shiver snaked down his spine, as if he had been doused by an ewa of water.

The elf lord watched him pensively, a curiously solemn expression adorning his angular features. With a heavy tone he spoke words which left Aragorn reeling from shock and a dim yet consuming sense of horror.

"Though elves are impervious to the extremities of the weather, I cannot help but feel chilled when such a biting wind lays siege upon my skin." He cupped the fingers of his left hand uncertainly in the palm of his right, as if to warm them. Caressing them as if they were suddenly alien to him, he mumbled, "strange."

It took a moment or two for the full extent of those monumental words to sink in, and when they did, a considerably longer period for Aragorn to recover the use of his voice. His stomach roiled tumultuously as he turned to regard the elf who he had never seen as less than a father.

"Lord Elrond - " but he was already gone, leaving Aragorn quite alone.

"Come," the summons issue from within the chamber, "let us talk in more favourable conditions."

Aragorn felt as if those few fleeting steps were orchestrated by someone other than himself, for he bade them not. He walked in a dream; an all too prevalent nightmare – except there was no reprieve in waking, the horror of such a revelation was a horror that would persist in reality, invariably. It was an all too prominent fear which had listed upon the edge of conciseness for too long a time, and that he had watched draw nearer with greater and greater trepidation.

The silken touch of the ivory curtain, which caressed the exposed skin of his cheeks as he passed through them into the tranquil chamber was synonymous with passing through a veil. All which he had once known was unwillingly relinquished and left in the virtue of innocence, exchanged for an uncertain future, wherein even the mighty seemed fallen.

Lord Elrond sat motionless, placid and impenetrable. His kindly gaze never deviating from the rangers face.

Aragorn moved with a practised calm, unbetraying of his inner turmoil, to take a seat opposite the omniscient figure.

"I've startled you," Lord Elrond observed, his manner still the residually calm resignation of a man who knew his unalterable end. "Though, not as greatly as I would have imagined. You have read the signs I presume, but yet you did not expect them to mass upon such swift wings ..."

Downcast eyes graduated to regard the fathomless depths of orbs older than age itself, and Aragorn inclined his head solemnly in affirmation. Then, finding his courage, said:

"But from experience, knowledge in the prelude of occurrence, does not necessarily soften the blow when the sword strikes." His tone was soft and full of regret.

Elrond gave an almost bitter laugh; "now that is wisdom I know all to predominantly. The gift of foresight is a coveted curse." He offered Aragorn a sad smile, which only sank further into sorrow as he continued, "Estel ..." he spoke the former name fondly, an entwine of endearment and loss, perfectly bonded, perfectly opposed. A fond memory in the ever strengthening oppression of woe. "The light of the Eldar is leaving us, its failing has already began. The effects are, for the moment, slight, but time will have her way. Never before have we given time any small portion of our thought, and now we are beholden to it, and as she elapses so too will our alterations become more prominent."

Again he caressed the tips of his long, sculpted fingers as if suddenly reminded of their foreign coldness by the tone of their conversation. His expression, however, remained impassive. Neither fear nor trepidation found home there.

Aragorn watched his ministrations with ever-heightening concern and an unquenchable sense of unsettle. It was like being in attendance when the mighty fall from grace and power, like observing the grand fortress – histories safe haven – crumble before one's eyes, ravaged with age and demolished by a breath.

"This malicious evil pollutes the once fair lands, so that everything good and green fails to fire and darkness. Meanwhile, in the hearts of those who once rejoiced, now breeds fear, anguish and doubt. Estel, we grow weary, and our hearts are burdened with longing. It is a weariness which consumes and cannot be revoked."

"You will sail to the undying lands?" Whispered Aragorn, his expression both drawn and smothered by dread.

"Yes. In the end." Elrond watched the ranger with a troubled countenance, with eyes that knew and saw too much. There was betrayal in his foster sons stare.

"And Elladan? Elrohir? … Arwen?" He trailed off, the words thick, bitter and chocked with the barren harshness of loss.

Elrond understood, Aragorn's fears were his own inverted. What one lost, the other gained; scales balanced on injustice. Which party held the right for their wants to take precedent?

"Their decisions are their own. Though, I cannot deny what I would desire, but neither would I force their hand. This is not our war, but we shall play our part in it for as long as we are required." His tone was reassuring despite the tenor of the conversation. "The time of the elves is ending. The time of men is now at its inception. As our age goes down with the dusk, so does yours rise with the dawn."

Aragorn felt his heart sink into melancholy and his bravery transcend into a lie when affronting the face of cold, bare truth. His eyes became dim and shrouded and the plains of his forehead became creased and shadowed, like the fissure cracks in his reserved exterior.

"Do not be troubled," the elf lord soothed in a way that served to remind Aragorn of his yesteryear, when he would have taken comfort from such a tone, "the passage from this land to another is not one to be mourned, but celebrated, for something far greater lays beyond."

"I cannot be gladdened by the thought of loss," opposed Aragorn solemnly.

"Think of it not as loss," Elrond reassured him gently, "just an extended separation, a stint in the wilds away from home, but like the wandering rangers return, nothing shall keep us separated forever."

With slow, deliberate movements, Lord Elrond placed a comforting hand upon the rangers shoulder; a silent reassurance; a strengthening exchange. Even through the thick fibres of his clothing, Aragorn fancied that he could still feel the coldness which resided in their tips, maybe because he expected it, maybe because he looked for it.

The cold touch seemed to reawaken the raw fire in his throat, and fill him with the ache of reproach, as if the humanizing coldness was in itself, to blame for his melancholy. Everything seemed to be happening in rapid incrementation.

Finally, he dredged up the will and resolve so to speak the foreboding words, whose promise was only of further dread;

"The ring cannot stay here, can it?"

"Nay. It cannot. We have not the strength left now to conceal it, or keep it against the enemies will." The words were heavy, and elicited their toll upon the elf lords face, painting it haggard and careworn for an instant.

"Then, what must be done?"

"What does your heart council?"

Deciding the fate of the world lay outside of the decision itself, but rather, in the actions thereafter, which shaped and crafted ones greatest feats. In the comfort of ones home, prospects of danger and death were reduced in effect, so that it only took Aragorn a moment to find clarity. When it came, it was not a revelation, merely a fact always subconsciously known, but concealed in hope. Hope of a different course, of an alternative set of circumstances which were never offered. It was always easier to lie to oneself than it was to admit the truth, for once untethered, there was no escape.

"The ring must be destroyed." Those words drained him, and suddenly he felt old, too old.

"That is what mine councils also," Elrond admitted gravely. "Our strength now lies in unity and fellowship; alone, we shall fall, the last great pinnacles of our races rushing into darkness, but united we stand true in the face of evil. At my table tonight sat representatives of the last free peoples of Middle-Earth, and it is upon our shoulders, and at the point of our swords that the future will be decided. This war will be great and it shall spread as fire upon the land. This I have seen. But whether the battle goes well or ill in the end I cannot yet discern."

In the pregnant silence which followed, the elf lord drew closer to his once foster son; fixing him with eyes intense. So intense that they seemed to encompass each ageless year in one single regard; a wealth of knowledge; a bitter-sweet remembrance, so raw, prominent and untarnished that Aragorn found it almost unbearable to return their gaze.

"But even in the darkest chasms of despair burns the fire of hope, _Estel_. You embody hope, you grant it anew to those who have since forsaken it as folly, you reaffirm its validity to those who find their convictions faltering, and to those who are lost without possession or cause, you bring it in the form of purpose. We will look to you, Aragorn before this is through." His words offered encouragement, comfort, reassurance, but from them Aragorn took none.

Faith was easy to feign, and its lies mattered not, so long as the appropriate party believed the words were given in truth. Faith he had no trust in, it neither bolstered confidence nor aided deliverance. Vaguely he wondered if Arwen and Elrond had formed a collaborative speech of heartening.

"That is what I fear" he whispered, throat tight with constricted emotion.

"You doubt needlessly, for you do not trust in your own abilities to lead and govern. The thought of anything until it comes to pass can seem infirm, and it is this durability which births doubt, falsely cloaked in certainty. Do not let it. When your moment comes, son of Arathon, it shall be a proud moment, one that you will harness instinctively, undaunted by the troubles which now blind you."

Outside, the impenetrable darkness dispersed in a dilatory fashion, which bespoke the secretive whisper of dawn. The lamenting sigh of the winds breath depleted into a furtive stillness, but still the disillusioned stars blinked in the dark canvas like glittering eyes expelling regretful tears. Everything and nothing had changed.

"The hour grows late and early as one. I suggest you take some rest, _ion nin_, for at the noon, we seek our fate." Elrond's tone was soft, but imperative, and Aragorn caught the inclination that the word imbued.

He rose slowly, his gait pensive and stalling.

"Farewell, until the noon."

"Until the noon."

To tread the familiar halls was like a physical embodiment of assurance; a path so well worn that it was imprinted upon the soul, and one that was navigable even within the veil of darkness. But what would happen to the fair haven of _Imladris_ once its occupancy renounced it? Would it endure, or perish? The answer was but another uncertainty, overshadowed by the pressing weight of threat.

The familiarity of his boyhood chamber, now an altered image of memory brought Aragorn no rest. Instead it bore him to unpermissed thoughts, that wandered awry, carried upon an air of introspection. A single image witnessed by two sets of the same grey eyes in their regard of hardened kindness….

* * *

The wind whistled and groaned, harsh raindrops beat a frightful tattoo and a tempestuous sky rumbled with animosity.

Surrounded by the sounds of the storm, Estel, alone in his chamber could obtain no rest. With his scope of years standing just short of three, his young mind could proffer no explanation to account for the weathers sudden rebellion. Some great wrong was evidently afoot.

The young human sat motionless and ramrod straight, poised, frightened; the smooth satin sheets pulled mercilessly up to his chin, as if they in the their strangulation hold offered some modicum of protection. Fearful eyes frantically roamed the chamber, which had so recently acquired an air of imposition, lingering fretfully upon the distant corners where the darkness appeared most impenetrable.

Tremors not born from the nightly chill assailed the small form, and erratic breaths punctuated the winds sparse interludes; sometimes quick, gasping and unsatisfying; sometimes whimpered and strangled; sometimes ceasing altogether.

He longed for the comfort and company of another, someone to ride out the storm with, but his own fear rendered him incapacitated. He thought of calling out, but did not know whom to call for the better, nor whether in elvish or the common tongue.

It was not the wind upon its own merit solely that awarded him the greatest fear, nor the persistent threatening rhythm of sheeted precipitation, nor the brutish roar of a sky in turmoil, though those forces were sufficient enough. Nay! It was what he could hear _upon_ them. Voices. Harsh, guttural voices which presumed words he didn't understand in a language he knew not … but their sound seemed to linger in his memory inspiring within him a predominating fear. Even they though, callus and cruel in their diction, were better than the screaming he thought he periodically detected.

Vague images provided an accompaniment to the unfounded sounds, existing like indistinct memories recalled to consciousness. Faces he thought he must have once known for their fading clarity, but which had disappeared without due explanation. Some meant more to him than others, but where were they now?

The rain hammered unyieldingly against the window, causing the silk hanging to stir and flutter as if some unseen hand had set them in motion.

_Make it stop … Make it stop … Please make it stop! _Estel recited frantically forcing his eyes tightly closed to block out the image. The consideration of what was happening _outside_ was bad enough, but the prospect of it somehow getting _inside_ as well … It didn't bare thinking about.

His throat clenched and burned, making swallowing not only impractical but impossible, and his eyes stung with the threat of unrighteous tears as he told himself desperately that none of it was real. Not the fell voices, nor the diminishing faces, but the more he tried to omit and negate them, the more fervently they seemed to prevail and bare down upon him.

"_Ada! … 'Dan! … 'Ro!_" Each shout went unheard against the tirade of the storm, a sound lost in sound. No longer could he refrain from weeping, fear giving way to blind panic, "Please!" he whimpered piteously into the darkness.

But no-one came.

Suddenly – in the absence of lulled warning – there was an alarming flash of light. It illuminated the bed chamber in a sickly pallor, that was decidedly worse than the omnipresent darkness it proceeded; painting shadowed apparitions upon the walls which reached with bone-like fingers to ensnare the young human. Estel's heart momentarily arrested, and then everything went black again, a deeper more emphatic blackness.

This phenomenon was proceeded almost instantaneously by an earth-shattering _CCRRAASSHH!_ overhead, which seemed to set the very walls of _Imladris _aquiver.

Estel's scream was lost to the cacophony as he fought with frantic thrashes to free himself from the satin sheet entanglement. No thought pervaded his mind, the only thing he knew with any affirmation was that he wanted to be out of his chamber where fear seemed to diffuse in condescending concentrate.

His feet hit the floor stumbling and scrambling hands broke his fall. He had alighted again in an instant, too stricken by panic to address the smart ache in his right hip, which had initiated first contact with the cold stone floor in an awkward tumble.

He rushed toward the door and flung it open, ragged breaths punctuating the stricken action, at once feeling better and worse in concurrence. Better because the sconce's burned lowly in their brackets effectively combating the predominant darkness, and worse because the world suddenly seemed so much larger and so much more imposing than it had ever afore appeared.

He quailed and seemed to shrink beneath its encumbering sense of foreboding, chewing rapidly on the sleeve of his nightshirt; residual tear tracks still wet upon his burning cheeks.

In the domed hallway the sounds of the storm were muffled, distant and gave the illusion of being less near at hand. This, however, pertained to no sense of comfort for Estel, rather, it made him imagine being trapped underground, and the walls appeared to close in accordingly.

Fear is the natural enemy of living. Once we grant some object or occurrence the ability of causing us fright, everything subsequent is reinterpreted irrationally, illogically to the same effect, and in this world of fear, life, existence may become redundant. People and places we thought we once knew become ill-predictable entities, and all that is assuredly affirmed transpires element by element into conjecture and the unknown.

His steps were quick and fitful in nature, poised to bolt at an instants notice, though his legs shook beneath him. He walked with head bowed and eyes trained upon the floor, seeming to fold into himself as a method of retreat. His gait betrayed a minor limp, a sure indication of the mottled bruising that would undoubtedly adorn his abused side in the mornings light.

The hewn stone floor was cold and harsh beneath his bare feet, simultaneously abrasive and numbing. The intense cold – leached from the ground upon which it was founded – set into ones very muscle and sinew, aching prominently and intensely. The sensation was deeply disquieting.

Shivers of cold set into his already trembling body. The convulsions bleeding him of yet more misery. When would this all abate?

So pitiable he looked to the world. A child who was both celebrated and mourned, both loved and renounced, both revered and concealed. An encumbering responsibility relied upon his lifetime, while a less than reputable disposition tailored to his bloodline, tinged all aspiration of success. So much depended upon his susceptibility, or lack thereof. He was a child, just a child … and yet so much depended upon him. So much more than he knew.

Another alarming clamor bellowed overhead and Estel flinched and whimpered, more unbidden tears beginning to spill … _Almost there … Almost there_.

The illogical voices and images appeared to have receded back into memory, but yet they troubled him still. They had seemed important, but for why, he couldn't fathom; something he should hold onto, but something that he was already forgetting. It worried him. He didn't understand.

_Almost there _… The door to his _ada's_ chamber stood ajar, though the shy embers of the wall brackets failed to penetrate the interior. Again the storm commandeered new voice.

Delicate fingers gripping the ridged doorway, white at their tip. Back pressed against the walls cool caress, he waited quaveringly for his eyes to adjust once again to the scope of threatening darkness.

Blinking rapidly, he could just discern the outline of his _ada's_ sleeping form - seemingly illuminated by a vague opalescent glow, though distorted by the folding waves of material, and the ineptitude of his own ocular senses in the blackness.

"_Ada?_" he appealed desperately, but with weak conviction, a new school of thought stealing over him; did he really want to be overheard? Did he really want to be discovered in such a state of vulnerability? Even in those early days, what would later become his pervading traits of self-efficiency, valor, independence and determination, were already taking shape.

He was torn between his compulsion for comfort and reassurance; for the cradle of his protectors arms, and his reluctance in suffering through those initial pitiful moments, when all his fear was weighed by one unafraid.

With trepidation, he gazed back along the distance of the corridor, arrested by uncertainty. Did he have the resolve to tread the wary steps back to his quarters, knowing that the trip would be in vain? Did he have the bravery to endure the cantankerous elements and the fell voices should they be lying in wait to again assail him? He thought not.

With a doleful expression, and the fingers of one hand winding intermittently into his long brown tresses, an action demonstrative of his distress, he had almost resolved to just curl up in the spot upon which he stood and hope that sleep came swift and fast and so removed him from this world of fear.

Then, without warning, a low but malevolent moaning seemed to issue from within the walls, pursuing him, surrounding him. The wind! It was inside!

He gave a strangled wail, eyes wide and wild like a cornered animal, to whom even the air presented a tangible danger. It was coming to get him! Frantic steps beat an erratic tattoo, accompanied by gasping breaths as the young human fled to the salvation hold of the one he called _ada,_ caring nothing for bravery, caring nothing for shame.

With hampered and clumsy movements, he hoisted himself onto the beds expanse, which presented an infirm foothold for his cold-numbed feet. He ached for comfort and consolation, for reassurance and relief with every fiber of his being.

It was then that three things happened at once. White hot lightening split the sky, thunder raged in an omnipotent distillation, and haunted grey eyes met with those of his guardians staring back unblinkingly. Eyes devoid of life. Eyes that forever looked, but never saw.

Estel's blood ran cold within his veins. His mouth went dry. His throat constricted, making any utterance of sound impossible, and the art of breathing, almost so. His heart arrested and was subsequently fraught with adversity to re-establish its rhythm. He felt sick and weak, every inch of his small form quivered and a wave of heat engulfed him even as it felt a river of ice water traveled it's course along his spine, pricking his skin with a thousand needles. And it all took less than a second.

The young human scrambled wildly as darkness and fear finally threatened to lay claim to him. They closed in chocking him until his own eyes became blind and the world tilted in a noisome fashion, oscillating rapidly. Those eyes were dead eyes! Cold windows into absence. For the second time that night, the ground raced up to meet him; unforgiving and indifferent.

It seemed his mind wandered. Wandered into a barren wasteland, devoid of thought and of feeling.

The first thing he realized was an absence of pain where there should have been an advancement, and along with this, the absence of surfaces both cold and hard which should have formed his pillow. To the contrary he was warm and comfortable. How long had he wandered in that place?

His second revelation was one of state. Strong arms seemed to hold him, cradle him even, the pressure of two palms resting upon his back and hip alike, the former caressing minutely. Beneath his head, he could feel the steady rise and fall of his envelopers breath, hear the slightly muffled pulsation of their heart.

Then, there were voices again, or perhaps there was just one, it was hard to discern as they moved in and out of hearing. They were not, however, the terrified pleading moans that had afore haunted him, nor the feral sounds which ranked inhuman. These were soft, gentle and concerned. He was heartened.  
"_It's okay … You have nothing to be afraid of any more … I'm here._"

Steadily, Estel gained more lucidity, though he felt vaguely woozy, as if his mind were clouded by dense fog which only dissipated reluctantly and reduced its capacity to lethargy. His ears wrung quietly but persistently, and an odd sense of fatigue weighed heavy upon him. All of that vanished in an instant, however, when memory caught up with reality.

His forced his eyes to open, blinking rapidly in the warm ambient glow of a listless sconce, and struggling against the confine hold of his enveloper. He needed to see, to ascertain but yet he feared. Those strong arms though held him close, and he resented it, until;  
"Easy, _ion nin_. You've had quite a fright …" Could it really be?

Then, everything came into focus. Every detail of his _ada's _chamber was thrown into sharp relief.

He was relinquished, though an equally firm and gentle hand still gravitated an inch or so from his back, and finally his eyes found those of his _ada_. Eyes which were marred with concern, worry and sorrow, but eyes which proclaimed life's very embodiment, existing like beacons to disperse the image of darkened windows. He didn't understand.

Even as relief encapsulated him, and resigned him to exhaustion, his small hand reached up to his _ada's _face, driven by need to affirm the reality. He felt the cool skin beneath its touch, delicate and clumsy fingers coming to rest for a moment over the elf lords closed lid, before finally, satisfied, Estel willingly sank back into the warming embrace he had so recently fought against. Hot tears trailed his cheeks, their falling another thing he could not comprehend.

Elrond tenderly thumbed away the glistening tear-drops, kissing the crest of the toddlers head. Then, drawing the satin swathes comfortably around them both, he began to sing. He sung of the golden dawn usurping the power of the night, sung of springs first buds and the trees eager anticipation for the waking of their children, proceeding a bereft winter, of the suns first true rays striking the ground after so long an absence, how the world rejoiced, reinvigorated once more. Sung of all that was good and pure, sung of that which would help belie the shadows of the night.

Estel quickly found comfort in the melody, even if he did not fully understand its sentiments. He was released from the spell of frightful recollections, which quickly receded into memory, and though the wind still howled, the rain still pounded and the storm still raged unabated, in his _ada's_ arms he finally felt safe; immune to their scaremongering tactics.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to fall closed, yielding to the beckoning call of sleep.

Elrond continued to hum even after his son became still and heavy in his arms, an enduring solace to guard against ill dreams. A requiem to his troubled mind.

For all reputable wisdom's worth, the elf lord knew not what to say, could not conjecture words apt enough to explain to his infant son the nature of what he saw, could not help him understand. The only comfort he could provide lay in loving reassurances and nonsensical whispers, uttered more for their sound than their words, which vehemently affirmed the child's safety, security and state of being.

He could not change what Estel remembered, those hurts ran too deep. Though vague in the recall of infantile innocence, they persisted to haunt; shadows upon the edge of memory. The only mercy afforded being, that time alone would relieve them; diminish them almost beyond recall.

Neither could he rectify, nor alleviate the young humans confusion and distress. Why he stood like a guarded sentry in the doorways midst for prolonged periods; fixing each passer-by with doleful and suspicious eyes; shunning any attempt at interaction, and then shunning his own recoil. Why at one moment he desperately sought contact and at the next, perhaps more desperately, retreated.

The ethereal air of the elves unnerved the human, who still remained somewhat unaccustomed to it, the opposition it presented to his every instinct, only served to feed his already fervent uncertainty. But – he was warming. He had opened his heart to the elf-lord and his sons; sought them out for play or reading, and even in spite of himself, seemed to relax in their presence. They were small steps, but advancement all the same.

The young human alone challenged his very assurances upon guardianship. A greater caution, compassion and concern were general requirements of the endeavor, as well as a more acute emotional sensitivity, for the hearts of men possessed a greater volatility and were more easily affected than the hearts of elves. Without care, children could reduce even the wisest men to fools, and Estel appeared no exception to the legacy.

The innocent toddler would attract trouble like bees to honey, Elrond could sense it. But already he began to see in the little one, great strength, character and love. To raise him would be difficult, but worth every moment.

Contented by his sons evident tranquility, Elrond slowly sank into the realm of waking dreams. His mind lost to their hold, his heart anchored in reality.

* * *

"Hurry Estel, _gwador nin_, less it be _sundown_ ere you get there! Alodee is a queen among her kindred and we are still far from her summit!" Elrohir called in high excitement, leaping deftly and augustly from one branch to its successor.

It was early morning, and the air was idle to the waking world; warm and tentative as spring progressed into summer. Away to the east, the cloudless sky began to lighten, dissipating the darkness like tendrils of mist in anticipation of dawns ascension. And against time, their natural, self-appointed foe, the four friends raced in order to watch the sunrise from a seat of kings.

Estel steeled his resolve and forced himself to move faster; determining all the while to forget that each step he took ferried him further from the ground below and more willingly into the humor of danger. No fear did he possess for heights, but even so – 100 feet up, he did not quite hold with the confidence he had entertained while his feet were firmly planted upon the fortified ground.

He watched in awed admiration as Elrohir and Legolas swung, leapt and somersaulted through the boughs; moving with a grace and fluidity unattributable to any outside of their race. As at home in the trees as they were upon the ground.

They raced and competed with great abandon, their stunts; daring, bold and boasting. A brash performance of nerve, skill and valor. The element of perfidious danger it encompassed was a thrill; each move bore the possibility of going awry – a miscalculated angle, an infirm footing, a treacherous branch breached at the bough – and that was what made it exciting.

Our younger years are plagued most irrationally by the notion of self-assurance – at our most vulnerable and incapable, we are bravest, a folly bravery though this be, and attribute to nothing the power of befalling us. Against all odds, we consider ourselves invincible.

But as we age, and our capability becomes in reality what we had always deemed it to be, we are held back by self taught fears, which ravenously consume all but the most convicted assurance.

This brash self-belief the four companions exemplified.

They weaved and dived; crossing each others paths in perfidious proximity, just shy of collision, laughing exuberantly and expressionatly. They echoed fitful exclaims in the form of mock outcries, bellowed challenges in the guise of encouragement and encouragements in the guise of open challenge.

Elladan matched their laughter though he watched from afar; ascending at a more leisurely pace beside Estel. In the absence of their youngest friends presence and his ever kindled interest, the three elflings had orchestrated it so that Estel would never be ascending alone. He could neither match them in speed or dexterity, while furthermore, it contravened the spirit of brotherhood to allow him to fall and remain behind, so they guarded their anticipation and practiced patience.

Periodically, Elrohir and Legolas would fall back and ascend with them for a time, Estel always constituting the heart of their formation.

Alodee stood tall at 175 feet; a giant among her kin, a queen among trees. She dwelt upon the outskirts of the valley which housed the shrouded haven of _Imladris_ like an omniscient sentry.

In her boughs nestled a life-time nectar; an affinity to knowledge, and an enigmatic air as grand and secretive as her. She held herself with poise and grace, a conceited pride long-nurtured. And from her summit could be glimpsed the scope of all lands surrounding, until the Misty Mountains usurped the view in the east.

Her height seemed to blur the point where earth and sky embraced; two parallel founding forces, eternally bound and opposed, and to reduce any favorable scene to a perfect miniature impression washed with watery hues. It was daunting and exhilarating in equal measure.

Estel focused solely upon the task of his advancement once the prolific broad-leafed foliage eclipsed the view of his companions escapades, though retreating shouts and laughter still permeated from above.

A prominent, burning ache was rapidly setting into the muscles of his arms and legs, rendering them taught and weak. The ingrained bark upon the tactile silver hue surface seemed to have settled like a sheet across his eyes, so that even when he looked away the same ridges were still imprinted upon every visage. But through a thriving will and determination, he forced himself to disregard both sensations, as uncomfortable and counterproductive as they were, banishing and containing them in the very rear of his mind, granting them no audience.

Their ascent in itself was no whimsical feat, Alodee's branches had grown intermittently and in prominent disorganization pertaining their freedom. She was a challenger and they heralded her challenge, the thrill, the danger. Each move was an intimate dance with death, growing ever more frenzied the longer it persisted. But more than that, it was a high of excitement.

"Are you tiring, _gwador_?" inquired Elladan with concurring humor and genuine concern, observing the young human and knowing even before he uttered a syllable in answer that they, all of them, would be of a fervent decline, and untrue.

"Nay! I am fine," Estel contested with feeling, striving to infuse his movements with exaggerated animation to further the impression. Elladan laughed openly at the ruse and his brothers insistence.

"Do not be ashamed of admitting fatigue, _gwador nin_, exertion is the natural consequence of action. But we are almost upon her summit, another thirty feet and out efforts will be rewarded tenfold!"

For a moment Estel was sombre, it was not the natural consequence for his brothers nor his friend, just he alone, another difference, another deficit, another weakness. But then a broad grin supplanted his despondency; the hardship, the aching protest, they were nothing compared to the deeds reward, insignificant irritations mitigated beyond the realm of thought.

He didn't know where it was born from, but suddenly a new strength vested in his limbs, a new passion was stoked in his heart and a new swell of determination, diminishing previous examples to fraud, rendered all fatigue negligible.

He swung himself up onto the succeeding branch with such vigor that he surprised even himself.

"That's it!" commended Elladan from below, "Do not over-think it. Feel your instincts and act upon them, do not doubt, do not question."

With growing confidence, Estel leapt, judging the distance that separated the branch he stood upon from its successor to the right, once and once alone. He nurtured within him no fear, no consideration of danger or folly, just a fierce confidence undiluted, which was fed like the flames of wildness with each successful execution.

He did not halt, he was flying like his kin through the trees, flying as though nothing could arrest him. Quick, agile and lithe he moved. Limbs inferior in length and power seemed to grow suddenly fortified, bestowed with a hitherto absent ability, which infused into them a prodigious skill. A body weaker and more breakable seemed instantaneously to discount all its limitations; impervious to hurt or injury, ignorant of fatigue and exhaustion. And a mind encumbered by human deficit, a querying nature and a besetting doubt, was liberated to wander and marvel as instinct directed with relish.

This was a lifetime concentrated into a single moment. He laughed and called exuberantly, able no longer to contain his mirth, for the passion of feeling was too strong. His eyes eagerly searched for the regard of his brothers, experiencing a swell of pride to recognize that _Elladan_ now strived to keep pace with _him. _

Inadvertently taken-aback, he faltered for an instant and then Elladan was beside him again, grinning emphatically, pride listing in the lay of his lips.

"Estel, _gwador nin_, you are full of surprises!"

It was both strange and starling in concurrence; the eccentricity of his existence, the unconventional path of his years. In him was unified two oppositional forces; the man as birth right bestowed and the elf which circumstances nurtured. Somehow, less human than the other sons of men, but less elven than those into the race born. An anomaly from all angles, segregated upon every front. An inopportune link and integrator that fate never demanded, but in itself executed.

He bested those who were called to him kindred, but was bested by those who named him kin in an enduring struggle of victory establishment.

He was marked out as an object of intrigue and trepidation. His equals in age and race treated him with cold prejudice, drawing fretful differences from his common tongue to Quenya lapses, the ease and familiarity with which he handled a bow and his somewhat ethereal and distinctly elven-like presence.

While those who held him in kinship, albeit adaptively, administered to him a notable over-concern, an eternal worry and a prevailing sense of fragility; laughing endearingly at his impassioned emotions and ability unrivaled to locate trouble.

But all of these things, to the two races attributed, served only to further emphasize, whether with intention or not, his differences. Differences which to him were unimportant essentially, but which provoked a deep somberness when given action or word for the purpose of emphasis.

They seemed to matter not to his _ada_, nor to this brothers, nor to his friend, the Sindarin Legolas, who in himself differed subtlety from the elves of _Imladris_.

But it _was_ strange and startling in concurrence, and upon infrequent occasions, more than a little frustrating.

Suddenly, there was an exultant shout from overhead and Legolas and Elrohir fell back into sight, the former with an animated countenance, gesticulating wildly.

"Lo! There flies an eagle away to the east! Dawns tread is almost nigh."

The eyes of the three companions simultaneously tracked the gesture, but while Elladan and Elrohir admitted appreciative 'ahhhs' to behold the sight of the august Wing-Lord, Estel could discern nothing, not even the imprint of a blurred shadow against the rapidly lightening sky. He sighed wistfully.

Wordlessly Legolas and Elladan traded responsibility, the former dropping into step beside Estel, smiling pleasantly while the latter executed a victory dash towards Alodee's summit, Elrohir in his wake.

"Almost there," Legolas encouraged, fixing his friend with a penetrating regard which solemnly diffused into concern to witness his evident fatigue.

Estel steeled himself for one final, monumental effort to bridge the distance which partitioned him from success. That brief repose in order to gaze skywards seemed almost to have cost him the resolve and ability to recommence his efforts. Despite his accused elven presence, he did not possess the endurance of his brothers and friend, though he wished he did. He resented always being the first to falter, the only to succumb to bitter winters bite and malady, the weak link in the war-forged mail shirt. His natural deficit partnered with the active antics of his prior performance had exhausted all but the very last reserves of energy he possessed. His entire body shook with the strain.

But he would not give in, he would not surrender to weakness while life still tenaciously held him. The depth of the young humans stubbornness was only equaled by that of his brothers, though never less than endearing.

Legolas received an exasperated glance for the trouble of his concern, which succeeded only in causing him greater amusement. He wondered if his dear friend was aware in that moment of just how precisely his expression echoed that of his adoptive _ada's_.

With nothing more than sheer force of will, Estel bullied his weak limbs into co-operating with his purpose, reach after reach, step after step, ignoring every single jarring protest which left him sickened.

Omitting his companions frequent reminders, Estel could tell that he was reaching his ascensions end upon his own merit. Alodee's vast boughs – which had all but equaled her girth at their inception point – had been almost imperceptibly dwindling in stature for the greater part of their climb, their composition physically mapping her growth throughout the centuries. Now they culminated at her crest in branches which seemed as weak and breakable as twigs.

What is more, they quivered and quailed in an unnerving fashion beneath the tread of Estel's heavier footfalls, making his suspect treachery at every movement. It seemed everything was pitted against him.

Without warning, Legolas wavered into counterproductive proximity at his side, and then before Estel could question or conjecture or identify if any unobserved indication of this intention had been given, with gentle movements he was being coaxed onto his friends back. He just didn't have the strength or will to refuse, his body momentarily seemed to operate independently of his mind.

His fingers were wound securely into the soft but hardy material of Legolas' tunic, and his feet desperately seeking redundancy were anchored eagerly and crossed at the ankles.

He would never willingly admit his necessity for help, but when unabashed aid was offered by a friend, it did not ring true of failure to accept, and besides, he was too exhausted to muster any sentiments of argument.

"Now you may scale the heights like an elf, _mellon nin_," Legolas grinned wryly, a spark of mischief igniting in his eyes that Estel was all too well accustomed with. After ensuring that his human friend was adequately secured, he whispered in a tone of confidence; "What say you about shaming your brothers with our skill? Hold on tight!"

Legolas set off at a leap, throwing caution the to wind and reducing danger to a sniveling form at his mockery. More sure-footed, lithe and powerful than Estel could ever hope to be. His movements were even and fluid, smooth as a placid sea and he did not appear in the least hampered by Estel's additional weight. If the young human did not witness with the truth of his own eyes the even passage of his surroundings, he would have sworn that they were not moving at all.

The early morning breeze, fresh and virgin, caressed Estel's face and whipped back the ever hanging tresses which framed his features. His own experience of carefree, unbounded advancement had been wonderful enough in its short lived combustion, but even that did not compare to being the passenger of another's.

There were shouts of surprise and mirth as Legolas and Estel drew level with the twins mere inches from the summit. There was less than a hairs-breadth between them, and they bounded with regiment action to collective victory, alighting into the cradle of the world.

It was with an indescribable suffusion of contentment and tranquility that the four friends lay prone upon the boughs, gazes honed upon the east. Elrohir's arm remained securely wrapped around Estel's waist, safeguard to misfortune, as the young human with wondrous elation drank in every detail of his surround. Meanwhile, Elladan lounged peaceably to the left, and Legolas, a little above and to the right.

The world in that moment seemed complete; a utopia sculpted from the very fibers of virtue, where hardship and suffering were nothing more than the morbid thoughts of those beyond the reach of satisfaction, and anguish an impossible concept. Infact, at that moment, the world did not seem to exist beyond their quartet; family, friendship and love. If only things could stay this way forever.

Through all that was yet to come, trialling and testing them to the last, they knew their brotherhood, whether in blood or acquaintance, would always stand firm. Outlasting time, outlasting distance, outlasting even the sea itself if it were to claim the entire mass of Middle-Earth for its own. And in this sense, their worlds whether in preservation or ruin, would always be complete so long as they stood together.

From this point of vantage, it was difficult to certify anything the eye touched as being real, Estel mused; the trees, the landscape, the haven of_ Imladris_ – his home – all appeared too picture perfect to composite reality, though his mind testified that very validity. It seemed that if one were to reach out, their fingers would touch the taunted canvas, the scenery a wash of water-colour in the early morning mist. Elladan had been right, the endurance he had exacted in achieving their roost diminished into triviality the instant he beheld its reward.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" murmured Elrohir appreciatively. All Estel could do was nod mutely, too awed for words. "And now," whispered his brother with eager anticipation, pulling him closer, "for the grand finale."

A shot of red burst along the eastern horizon, spilling down upon the mountains precipice like molten fire. From the crest of Alodee's height sounded four simultaneous gasps, emanating from the comrades who were as yet still in the dawn of their lives.

* * *

Estel sniffled miserably. An action which was swiftly followed by a sneeze and a pitiful moan from the young human in quick succession.

It was a warm, pleasant autumn day – the kind which were in rapid decline – and he was forced to spend it in the grips of illness and resigned to bed-rest; which was about as much fun as rain on a hunt.

He lay reading and determinedly endeavoring to deny unto himself the evidence of his own sickness. He valiantly strived to ignore his pounding head which was tormented by a deep, resonating, repetitive pulsation, equaled only by the cacophony of a tempestuous sea crashing against rock far off. The nauseating pain blurred his vision, warping the words before him into one continuous stream of black.

He passed off his raw, burning throat as nothing more than an irritating niggle which refused to abate, though the bitter-sweet taste which seemed to settle there only succeeded in making him feel worse. His sneezing he dutifully attributed to an over-abundance of autumn dust, and his erratic fluctuations in temperature were surely owed to the unpredictable nature of the weather coupled with the chill wind which was steadily blowing in from the south, heralding winters arrival.

But for his coughing, those great hacking rasps which so cruelly deprived him of breath, he could formulate no mitigating excuse. They alone prevailed as testament to his illness, effortlessly decimating the feigned image of health he had worked so tirelessly to found.

He turned the page without having done anything further than glance blankly at its predecessor; his eyes too heavy, his headache too prominent and his vision too imperfect to really concentrate on reading. But he would not renounce the book, never admit that it was too much so long as he could help it.

It was hard sometimes to live among the immortal elves, beings impervious to extremities and illness, Estel mused sadly, when he alone was subject to both. It separated him from those he loved, marked him out as different when all he wanted to be was the same. It made him feel self-conscious, weak – that illness was something to hide rather than succumb to, that it was something to be regarded with shame and recoil. He knew that was foolish, but then how could those who never experienced illness fully understand? He didn't want to be a burden, but his susceptibility painted him as one. He knew that as soon as he betrayed a snuffle his _ada_ would be there with a well practiced hand checking for fever, or else his brothers would bind themselves to him, forsaking all other responsibility: exactly what he didn't want. It wasn't fair, it just wasn't fair. Right now the most prominent injustice in a long procession of fellows.

He felt a familiar irritation building behind his eyes; temperamental and burning. His breath hitched in attempts to stem the inevitable, before he sneezed boldly; once, twice, three times. Curse the dust!

He spared the pretty kerchief his _ada_ had brought for him an accusatory glance, as if it's very presence constituted a moral offense, as if it, in itself served solely to prolong his illness. Leaning his head warily into the sunken folds of his pillow he groaned, frustrated with himself.

During the course of the fit, his book had fallen solemnly closed, and gratefully he left it so. After all, he had not by his own jurisdiction resigned it, and now he was just simply indulging in a moment of bolstering clarity so as to sufficiently absorb the finer details of the previous chapter before he began anew. Nothing more.

Stiffly, he sat up a little straighter; his tight muscles aching in protest, and gazed longingly outside the boundary of his window. What he wouldn't give to be outside! To be anywhere other than here; bedridden and plagued. Why could it not have rained? At least then, being forced to remain in doors would have been less sacrificial, maybe even preferable to the harsh wintering elements. But nay, even the weather served to reinforce his misery by cheerful demeanor.

To make matters worse, Elladan and Elrohir were away, abroad in the wilderness and their return was not to be looked for for another two days hence. He missed them dearly and longed for the days when he could ride out with them, brothers against the world.

Lord Elrond upon discovering his ailing had escorted him straight back to bed, and therein remained with him for the better part of the morning, offering copious and indulgent distractions in his presence and welcome relief in healing. But he also had other matters to attend to, as Estel well accepted, and though his _ada_ promised to return ere long, no merger passage of time would have seemed soon enough.

The young human would deny the truth of his illness until the end! But that did not mean that he did not enjoy and begrudgingly relish the additional compassion it awarded him. Everyone wanted someone there to drive away the pain and misery in our dankest hours of suffering.

He sighed in wistful exasperation, he abhorred the natural deficit of his race, his burdensome weakness and affected emotional state which the prior sculpted, but at that moment he just wanted someone to sit beside him, to distract him with fanciful tales, amuse him with flamboyant bards or else just to be there. Forget pride.  
In hindsight though, this action was ill-engaged as it ensured a harsh fit of coughing that seemed to extend beyond the realms of endurance. His eyes watered ans his chest ached as he chocked and gasped for air with no abridgment.

Suddenly, and soundless in their arrival, a pair of firm but gentle arms held him, arms well practiced in the prime rights of war and fatherhood. Smooth circles were traced upon his back, aiming both to quell the spasms and to offer comfort.

Even through tear-blind eyes he knew it was _ada_. No-one other than he possessed a touch so fortified and tender in concurrence.

"Easy," his voice was profound and sorrowful as he spoke, "it shall pass _ion nin_. Breath."

Mercifully, the spasms finally began to abate, until scant of breath and seeing nothing beyond bursts of light like dying constellations, the only thing which kept him grounded was his _ada's_ comforting caress. Slowly he began to remaster the art of breathing, and too defeated for shame, he sank willingly into the embracing arms, forgoing the image of weakness.

The elf lord held his foster son close, whispering words of serenity and comfort even as his keen eyes appraised. His heart ached for the boy.

With a well practiced gaze he took in Estel's flushed cheeks, his damp forehead and fever-bright eyes. He could feel the uncomfortable warmth of his sons skin radiating through the light garments in which he was clad even as Estel shivered. Hear the labored nature of his little one's breathing, the rattling hiss of in and exhaled air, which sadly seemed to indicate that the cold had now set into his chest. With great sadness he kissed his sons brow, wishing there was more he could do.

"_Ada_, it is not fair," Estel complained quietly as soon as he possessed breath for the exertion, his voice was wasted and hoarse. He buried his face deep into the folds of the elf lords robs seeking comfort and release, endeavoring to submerge himself in a lake of satin and resurface when all of this was passed.

"I know, _tithen pen_, I know," Elrond soothed dearly, his gentle hands taking up their employ once again. It _was_ unfair. "But you shall be well again in little enough time." Not soon enough in Estel's opinion.

Learned though the elf lord was in the lore of healing, malady had no instant curative; its effects could be somewhat suppressed for brief periods at a time, its duration could be curtailed and its hold relieved in respite, which offered the only true escape – but always it had to run its depleting course, however long that took. It was the single exception to an otherwise solid practice.

"I have brought you something which will make you feel better." Elrond reached for the warm drought which he had hurriedly resigned to the night stand upon his entering. With slow but deliberate movements, he offered it to his son.

Estel regarded the tea with an air of distrust, but it was a measure of how desperately he wished to be well again that he accepted it without argument and immediately drank.

The honey and lemon mixture was like a soothing sedative, it slid down his throat quelling the fire and numbing the pain, until the only sensation left to him was a swollen heaviness. At least it was better than the alternative.

Elrond watched the fight leave his foster sons eyes, felt the small body relax and grow heavy in his arms. It had been six years since the little one's turbulent arrival at _Imlardis, _and since then he had only grown in stubborn independence and character. Both were twinned of course with an accursed ability to locate trouble in even the most serene environment and an endearing thirst for adventure. Was it any wonder her worried?

"Come," he said quietly moving with an ease of manner until he and Estel both were nestled beneath the fathomless white folds, warm and comfortable. "I shall tell you a tale while you rest."

Estel made no protest, too content to argue. His _ada_ was here, he would always be here and at that moment, nothing else mattered.

Elrond commenced in a soft, soothing baritone, regaling in the elvish tongue. Estel's eyes slowly drooped into an unbidden sleep even as he fought to remain attentive. He however, felt no begrudging towards the teas effects, rather he welcomed the escapism.

It was much, much later when Estel awoke. His first indication of the time time passage was granted in the form of an indistinct external darkness which pressed down upon his closed lids deepening the density of the already sable world.

He was warm, though not unpleasantly so, and comfortable, and both made him loath to properly awaken. His mind felt sluggish and his memory nothing more than the tendrils of an insubstantial haze. He knew something was amiss, but just what it was … nay, it eluded him.

He lay silent and still, allowing his entire being to transition into a state of conscious awareness. His eyes he kept closed; retaining the last threads of a sleep undisturbed, unwilling to return to a reality filled with pain and sickness and even as he contemplated the sounds of the night, anything to distract himself from mounting self awareness, voices broke the almost quite; hushed and melodious;

"He shall be happy to see you, he longed desperately for your company in the early morn ..."

"We came with all haste. Though now upon reflection it seems a measured slowness. Thank the Valar we elected to return ..."

Those voices were familiar! But why? How? His sluggish faculties struggled to comprehend even the minutest detail. Think! Think! Think! Meanwhile, now that he bade them too, his eyes seemed to have lost the ability to open upon their own merit.

Movement. An advance, a faint rustle of robes, like wind passing though a field of corn, which rose in sound as their owner drew closer. A gentle touch, hand upon hand and a small breath of residual cold.

"He looks so pitiful. So reduced ..."

Estel realized with small indignation that it was he who was being discussed, and slowly comprehension began to dawn. He had been … a little under the weather, yes, that was it. No more, mind. And even now he felt within himself a marked improvement, though he could still sense the threads of sickness hanging upon him, waiting in the wings to besiege him the instant his will lapsed.

"Pray, do not look to morose Elladan. He shall be well again in a few days, you know that. The sickness is uncomfortable, but it poses no threat. As it happens, he should already be feeling a little better …"

Elladan … His brothers! His brothers had returned?

In that instant he blinked forcibly awake. Bowed over him and marred with deep concern were the almost identical faces of Elladan and Elrohir, and a little beyond stood Elrond smiling down at his youngest. His family was back together again.

"Estel!" they cried in unison relief, moving eagerly to embrace him before taking up seat at his side like two benevolent guard dogs.

"_Manen nalye?_" (How are you?)

"_Man mathach?_" (How do you feel?) They asked in quick concurrence.

Dazed would have been an apt answer. It could not have been much later than midday when he had fallen asleep and now it was evening. But the evening of which day? Surely it was not possible to sleep for two days uninterrupted? His brow furrowed.

The twins laughed to witness his confusion, and their ill-suited expressions of concern thawed instantaneously. They anticipated his query knowingly.

"Nay," grinned Elrohir wryly, "you have not slept away two days." Of this Estel could not help but be relieved, the prospect was horrifying. "Though I dare-say it would have done you the world of good." Father and son traded significant glances.

"Then … how?" Estel remained bewildered. It was Elladan who spoke then:

"It was yesterday eve, when out sights and intentions lays towards the south when we realized: the place we were now needed most was the one which we had taken leave of. So we returned with all haste. Intuition is a powerful thing g_wador nin_, and if the dormant call ever rears its head, you would do well to heed it, remember that." He offered his little brother a warm smile, heartened to see a semblance of his former self returning, chasing away the image of the pale and prone form he had appeared in sleeping.

Estel digested these tidings with a careful consideration. In that moment he was acutely aware of the love which surrounded him protected him and nurtured him, that his brothers would curtail their hunt on whimsical intuition which told them they were needed, that his _ada_ would sacrifice his his duties just to remain at his side and comfort him. He was indebted and endeared.

He was about to deliver upon them an outward expression of such gratitude when another coughing fit left him at its mercy. Reduced in brutality though the spasms were, they persisted in purloining his every last breath. The injustice stung.

At once a hand was upon his back, circling gently and another was proffering him a glass of water, which's origin was unknown. He refrained from rolling his eyes in dual exasperation, forcing himself to remember the wealth to gratitude he had been just about to express. He was fine! He had been ill enough times to know that he wasn't about to die, though that seemed the consensus agreement of his eleven counterparts.

If his brothers were a reflection of their _ada_ in any way, it was in their irritating ability to worry needlessly over his well-being and safety, though they of course demonstrated a complete disregard for their own. Elrond laughed endearingly to observe Estel's less than gracious expression.

The young human, however grudgingly, took the glass and drank a few sips, revealing in the soothing sensation the cool liquid exercised upon his throat. He had truly missed his brothers during their absence … therefore, perhaps he could suffer through their fastidious attentions, for a little while anyway.

Renouncement evident, he sank back into their arms, Elrohir immediately enveloping him in a consoling embrace.

"Poor Estel," he lamented with sincerity, nestling his younger brothers head beneath his chin, "how you are subjected to injustice." The young human couldn't agree more; his former aches and pains vengefully returned to awareness with each minutes passage, reminding him that this ordeal was not yet concluded. But somehow, the prospect of remaining bed-bound was not now so abhorrent. Okay, he would admit it … he welcomed their tender care. Forget stubborn independence; there were yet many years of that to be had. Right now, they were all that he needed when he wanted beyond anything just to feel better.

"However, there is one small consolation," relished Elladan. He smiled lovingly as Estel fixed him with red-rimmed, fever-bright eyes which still managed to be questioning even in their affected condition. "Since elves are impervious to the illnesses of men, we have no necessity to leave your side until you are well again." And suddenly, viewing fact through a different scope, Estel praised the distinction he had so recently charged as damnable.

So that was how Estel endured the remainder of his ailing days; his brothers true to their word never left his side, even in slumber. They regaled him with numerous, fanciful distractions, well received by their eager audience. Misery gave way to laughter and laughter ultimately gave way to restored health.

Illness was most defiantly not Estel's idea of fun, but it was worth endurance to have his family beside him.

The race of men was subject to constant changeability, which meant, when needs demanded, they could adapt. The elven race was royal, fastidious, wise and unchanging; the greatest gifts of the Eldar bestowed to them in concentrate, and inadvertently, the greatest curse.

The lands, however, indifferent to the will of any race, _could_ change, and had changed. Those who had once founded them, now found no home in them, betrayed by the mounting years. And now, sick with longing, they foresaw only one feasible option.

The things which had always separated him from his family, those very things which he had envied, now heralded their undoing.

* * *

_Each memory represents one of the traits which seperate elves and men. _  
_Firstly: waking dreams in comparison to sleep_  
_Secondly: the physical enhancements commanded by the elves_  
_Thirdly: Humans susceptibility to illness and elves immunity._

_Thank you very much for reading :) Your words are always apreicited if you want to give them._

_- One Wish Magic_


End file.
